


excommunication is the new black

by peltonea



Series: let the redeemed of the father tell their story [2]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biblical References, Bliss (Far Cry), Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Enemies to Friends, Head Injury, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Torture, John Seed POV, John’s temper tantrums deserve their own tag, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV John Seed, Past Child Abuse, Past Drug Addiction, Past Drug Use, Pre-Slash, Redemption, Slow Burn, The Faith/Tracey is background only, Uneasy Allies, Vomiting, excommunication, homoerotic torture fantasies, john seed is a serial killer in denial, semi-erotic religious torture dreams, this is one big callout post for john seed, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-10-15 04:09:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 86,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17521730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peltonea/pseuds/peltonea
Summary: “Another seal has been broken. It…” Joseph’s voice breaks, a half-sob bursting through the static. He recovers quickly. “It brings me great sorrow to announce that my brother, John, will not be joining us in Eden. He is dead.”Joseph sounds so mournful over the radio that for a moment John’s half-convinced that he’s imagining his own heartbeat, that he’s not really breathing, that he’s just an overactive ghost of someone else’s imagination. There’s dead silence in Father Jeffries’ church, Deputy Rook and his stupid little friends glancing at John and whispering amongst themselves.And then Nick Rye, the bastard, starts laughing.(Or: the Gates of Eden are shut to John Seed, who very unwillingly joins the resistance.)Russian translation now available/русский перевод





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so:
> 
> 1) the ‘canonical character death’ tag? yeah… that’s jacob, like, right before the first word. and a couple others too, i guess. 
> 
> 2) this fic will be part one of a trilogy. part two is set during the collapse, and part three afterward. those are where the john/deputy relationship will actually be a thing. this is basically just pre-slash with a plot (the rating is mostly because of violence and language and general religious horror). also, i'm not kidding about this being one long callout post for john seed and his shitty behaviour (mostly because he's the main character). 
> 
> 3) between college and work, i don't have a lot of free time right now. updates will be sporadic, as my other fic 'to enter the new eden' will be taking priority. i'll still update as often as i can though!

It’s not John’s fault.

It’s not his fault that Deputy Rook wouldn’t listen. It’s not his fault that Faith is losing control of her region, that Jacob got too cocky and— and— and they don’t have a body to bury.

It’s not John’s fault. None of this is his fault. He did his best. He kept offering salvation to Rook, endlessly generous and merciful. He Marked him, he Cleansed him, he almost Confessed him, and he tried to Atone him. Every time, Rook rejected John’s gifts. Violently. Then, without fail, Rook returned to his chaotic orgy of bloodshed and explosions, fucking up everything John and his family had strived so hard to build for the past fifteen years.

Now John’s here in his bunker office, trying and failing to explain to the Father why he’s locked his Gate down, why the sinners of Fall’s End are shooting off fireworks, why he failed to complete the task that the Father set for him. He's hunched over the radio, gripping the mic as though it's his only salvation. And... well, it might be. Joseph's actually angry at him this time. Not that he shows it like a normal person, but John can tell. Behind the calm demeanour, Joseph is angry, and that doesn't bode well.

“I don’t understand, John,” the Father says. His words cut deeply into John’s heart: the Father deserves better than this constant failure. John hangs his head in shame, even though the Father can’t see him through a radio. “I asked only two things of you: to finish preparations for the Collapse, and to save the soul of Deputy Rook.”

“Rook won’t listen to me,” John tries again. His voice sounds weak and whiny to his own ears, but he needs his brother to understand— it’s not fair! All Rook needed to do was say ‘yes’, and he didn’t. God, John tried so hard for that ungrateful asshole. And yet, every single time John reached out, Deputy Rook just… he just ignored John and kept on destroying stuff.

“I told you that this would be difficult, John,” the Father says. “I told you that that this was your test.”

“I’m— I’m sorry,” John stammers. He didn't mean to fail. Joseph had to know that John tried, didn't he? “Joseph, I know… I— I just—“

“You have failed me, John,” the Father says. His tone is just as calm as it always is, but there is a firmness and a finality in His voice. It’s clear that there is no more room to argue, that for all John’s legal expertise and his silver tongue, there is nothing John can say to smooth things over.

“I know,” John says, dread tying his stomach in knots. He knows what’s coming next, and he can’t stand it. Just in case it’s not too late, John adds: “I’m sorry.”

“I warned you that there would be consequences for failure,” the Father says, and this time there’s a hint of sorrow in His voice: a slight cracking here and there that can’t be attributed to the clear, strong radio signal or the hi-tech speaker system. “I told you that Eden’s Gate would be shut to you. And so it is.”

“No,” John whispers, cold fear clawing through his heart. Anything but that— anything but being alone, barred from his family and his future. He shakes his head, praying that somehow the Father will understand, will relent. “No, Joseph, please… One more chance, please— I just need—”

“John Seed,” the Father ignores John’s feeble protests, speaking with the strength of divine righteousness. “Though it pains me to do so, I cast you out. You are stripped of all authority in my name, of all ties that bind you to my flock. You may not enter New Eden with us.”

“Wait—“ John begs, but the Father does not listen. He finishes His judgement with two words:

“Goodbye, John.”

And just like that, it’s over. John opens his mouth, but no words fall from his lips. There’s nothing. His eyes do not fill with tears, his heartbeat does not quicken, his stomach does not sink. Numbly, he sets the mic on the desk, lowers himself into the chair. His hands tremble, despite his best efforts. There are no more messages from Joseph, the airwaves silent. There's only John and his racing thoughts.

The worst thing about this entire scenario is that it should never have happened at all.

There have been constant hints that Deputy Rook has the potential be saved, that he is a good man somewhere under his unquenchable thirst for blood: at the Church, he’d been respectful even as he handcuffed the Father. After the Cleansing, the way he’d looked at John and Joseph when he was pulled from the water, all quietly Blissful awe. The way he’d so quickly swallowed and said “yes” at his failed Confession despite the fear in the set of his mouth and the tension apparent in every muscle, the darkly protective look he’d had in his eyes as he glared at John, as though Rook were the one saving people. The way he never hesitated to sacrifice himself for those around him— whether it be a Resistance leader or some random schmuck by the roadside.

Deputy Rook is, at his core, a good man. He’s misguided and cruel and vindictive, but he’s good. He should have joined John by now, if only to save Hudson.

John glares at the map of Holland Valley he has hung above his desk. His vision swims dangerously, the flags and photos and papers pinned to the board blurring together. John gasps, his breath hitching by itself, and he grits his teeth and tries and fails to stop. His thoughts rush and blur, all desperate fantasies of fixing this and half-conceived notions of killing Rook or demanding an audience with Joseph, or just burning Fall’s End to the ground. Eventually, they all end the same: there’s no point, there is no Eden for him. John’s known Joseph for a long time. Joseph is a rock. He will not move.

After some time, the office door opens, jerking John from his whirlwind of thoughts. He looks up, wiping the last of the tears from his face. Several Chosen enter, lead by John’s second-in-command, a man by the name of Grant.

“I didn’t send for you,” John says.

There’s no answer. Grant nods at one of the Chosen, who moves so fast John barely sees the sackcloth in his hands before it’s jammed over his head, tied tightly around his throat.

John panics. He’s never been good at fighting. He’s never had to be— he’s always been able to sweet-talk his way out of trouble. John’s great at torture, but he’s never had to fight the people he Confesses. Someone else always does the hard work of actually capturing people for him. John lashes out at the Chosen leaning over him, his other hand automatically scrabbling at the too-tight twine restricting his airway. His wild blow connects and he hears a yelp, but there’s already another pair of hands holding him down, and then someone else immobilising his legs with their weight as they wrap rope around his knees and ankles. Another Chosen lashes his arms together in front of him, binding his forearms so tightly his hands wind up pressed together in a parody of prayer.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” John demands, trying desperately to throw off his assailants by shifting his body weight— all he succeeds in is knocking his chair over, caught awkwardly and painfully in mid-air by the traitorous Chosen. He’s shifted upward after a moment, slung over a bony shoulder.

“Answer me!” John shouts, and he tries again, bucking wildly. This time, he kicks someone, in the face if the long string of curses is anything to go by, and gets dropped on the floor for his trouble. He’s clearly pissed them off, because someone finally responds.

“Corpses don’t talk!” they snap— Grant, that’s Grant’s voice— and then something clocks John right in the face, bouncing his skull against a wall. His nose shatters instantly; hot, throbbing pain momentarily blocking out everything else.

John’s dazed for a while. He breathes heavily through his mouth, blood pouring from his nose, sticking to his beard, soaking into the sackcloth. He’s pretty sure someone lifts him up again, but he’s not entirely attached to his own body. He doesn’t seem particularly attached to gravity either. The world is spinning slowly, relentlessly.

At one point, there’s a loud clanking noise and there’s cool air on his skin and then he’s lying on hard, uncomfortable metal, the cold of it leeching the warmth from his body. His coat is downstairs, on the hook in his office, and he wishes it wasn’t. A gentle rumbling starts, pulsating through the metal, into John’s skin.

It takes a few minutes for reality to start coming back. Whatever he’s been tossed on, it’s moving. John tries to sit up, but the swaying of whatever he’s on— maybe a pickup truck? There were a couple in the parking lot when he got to the Gate, Deputy Rook hot on his heels— mixed with the general spinning of the universe at large sends him crashing back down again. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling sick. He doesn’t try again.

Is this an execution? That was always more Jacob’s style than Joseph’s, but— well, Jacob isn’t here anymore. Until today, John thought that his place by Joseph’s side was secure. And now the sanctuary he’s worked so hard to protect and build is closed to him.

John was nothing when Joseph found him, and now he is nothing again.

There’s distant gunfire, and the engine stops, but somehow the truck is still spinning. Someone lifts John, deposits him on unsteady ground, and the Chosen are talking nearby but their words don’t quite register.

Someone drags John along the rough ground, which turns quickly into damp soil. They’re going downhill. That’s not right, is it?

“Wait…” John mumbles. The gunfire sounds again, a little closer this time.

“Hurry up!” Grant orders. “They spotted us, they’ll be here any minute!”

The ground is wet now, and John struggles again. His arms and legs don’t want to work right, his assailant ignoring his pitiful efforts.

“Praise be to the Father,” the man dragging John whispers, pausing briefly. “Sorry, brother John. May you rest in peace.”

Then he drops John into cold water, pushing his mostly-immobilised body deeper in. John thrashes, trying in vain to free himself, to wriggle back to shore— he only succeeds in helping his assailant, inadvertently pushing himself further in. Then, suddenly, the dragging halts and a heavy weight drops onto John’s torso, pinning him beneath the water.

John shifts his weight, trying to buck the heavy thing off— what the hell is it, anyway?

It doesn’t work, he needs to breathe. John grits his teeth, praying for a miracle. He can’t die here. He _can’t_.

The heavy thing is gone, and before John can question why, a pair of hands wrench him out of the water, struggling with the twine around his neck for a second before the wet sackcloth is yanked off his face.

John gasps, inhaling blessed air. He squints up at his saviour, through the hair that has plastered itself over his face in the struggle. Maybe it’s Faith— or maybe Joseph himself. Maybe he has a chance to explain, to redeem himself in the eyes of the Father. Oh, God, he hopes so.

John’s saviour reaches down, wipes his hair back and out of his face. John’s blood runs cold in his veins. It’s not Faith or the Father, or even anybody who could be considered an ally.

Deputy Rook looks down at John, eyes narrowed.

"Huh," Rook says. "This is interesting."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m not 100% sure where rook’s forced baptism takes place— i don’t think it’s the lamb of god sacristry because there’s no campfire in the cutscene and the placement of joseph’s pickup truck doesn’t fit with the layout of that area. i think it might be the seed boat launch, so… let’s just go with that.
> 
> ANYWAY, warning for this chapter: near the end there are some pretty intense & graphic descriptions of vomiting. if that kind of thing makes you squeamish, you’re going to want to skip the final four or five paragraphs.

There are a few seconds of silence. Deputy Rook regards John with cold eyes, and John can’t look away. This is it, he thinks. He’s dying here. After all this shit, this is how it ends: Deputy fucking Rook. Maybe he’ll be lucky. Maybe it'll be quick.

Deputy Rook leans forward, and the world tips dangerously as he hoists John up into a fireman’s carry. John squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, until the nausea dies down a little. When he opens them, his view is of a Chosen corpse in the shallows of the river. Had that been the heavy weight crushing him?

Rook starts walking away from the waters. The scruffy little dog that follows him around everywhere bounds up, yipping cheerfully at his owner, making John’s head ache even more. The cool evening air is even cooler now, what little warmth John had slowly evaporating through his waterlogged clothes.

“Wait,” John protests. His voice is weak and strained, his words slurring even though he doesn’t mean them to. “Where are you taking me?”

Rook ignores him, carries on walking.

Grant’s corpse lies in the open, not far from a couple knocked-over Bliss barrels. John would spit upon his face if he didn’t feel so sick. Traitorous asshole. He thinks he recognises this place, though. It’s the Seed boat launch, right behind John’s own house. Where he’d cleaned Deputy Rook’s soul, where Joseph had delivered his ultimatum. There’s a sick kind of symmetry in that.

There are dead bodies everywhere, littering the grass and the path. All of them are followers of Eden’s Gate, mostly Chosen. It’s impressive that Deputy Rook was able to kill them all, and so quickly— they couldn’t have been at the sacristry for longer than ten or fifteen minutes, right?

“When I got the report that a bunch of Peggies were sighted here, I figured you must be baptising the last of the poor bastards you kidnapped,” Deputy Rook says, conversationally.

John doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to: there’s no way the Deputy hasn’t figured out what happened. It would be obvious to anybody with a set of eyes that John fucked up, that he failed Joseph. Rook’s got a cruel streak, rubbing John’s failure in his face like this.

Deputy Rook opens the door to a nearby car, a bright neon-light monstrosity, and stuffs John awkwardly and uncomfortably into the passenger seat before climbing in the other side. He glances at John, then brings the bloody sackcloth out of his pocket.

“Sorry about this,” he says, and pulls it down over John’s face. He doesn’t tie it, though, keeping the airflow going despite the wetness of the cloth.

John doesn’t respond. What’s the point? He’ll be dead soon anyway. He swallows against the nausea— if he’s going out, he’s not going out covered in vomit. He’s wearing Armani, for fuck’s sake.

“You want in, boy?” Rook asks, and there’s a small whine. “Okay, suit yourself. I’ll see you in Fall’s End, Boomer.”

The door closes, and then the engine starts. It’s much quieter than the truck was, but then Deputy Rook turns on the radio and the screechy, tinny guitars make John’s head hurt even worse. There’s nothing much for a while, except the sound of John’s heavy breathing in his own ears.

“Awful quiet, aren’t you?” Deputy Rook asks, breaking the silence.

Wrath really is Deputy Rook’s sin, if he’s going to keep teasing the man he’s about to kill. There’s no gain in it— it’s just cruel.

There’s a sharp turn, and John’s stomach rolls even worse than before. He swallows, barely suppressing a gag, and wishes he could breathe through his nose.

“We’re heading back to Fall’s End,” Rook adds, casually. “To answer your question from before.”

John grits his teeth. So his execution is to be public. He’ll be lucky if Deputy Rook does the deed himself— he’ll probably have the Resistance warm John up a little. A quick end was too much mercy to hope for. Well, John won’t give them what they want. He’s bruised and battered and out of his family’s good graces, but he won’t give any of those stupid, snivelling sinners the satisfaction of hearing him scream or seeing him cry. He won’t.

The car halts, and soon enough John’s being carried again. He shivers in the cold, and then they pass a threshold, enter someplace warm, soft light shining through the sackcloth. There’s a quiet murmuring here, and a pleasant, bookish smell mixed with antiseptic and blood. John can recognise the way Deputy Rook’s footsteps echo, the sound the door made as it creaked open— this must be Father Jeffries’ church.

“Deputy, you’re back,” Jeffries’ voice comes from nearby. “Who…?”

John is set down gently, propped up in a mostly-sitting position against something that digs into John’s back— a pew? The discomfort helps ground him, and although the spinning sensation continues, it’s a little more distant. The sackcloth is lifted from his head, and John shuts his eyes against the sudden light. There are a few quiet gasps.

“Oh,” Jeffries says.

“Well, damn!” a particularly annoying voice calls. John squints toward the source. Nick Rye, shirt and sunglasses back on his body, walking toward them with a beer can in hand. Mary May’s behind him, frown on her pretty little face. Nick grins, continues his sycophancy. “You’re really somethin’, aren’t you? Go out to save some poor civilians, come back with that nasty motherfucker.”

“John’s the one who was being drowned,” Deputy Rook says, quietly. More of the Resistance come into view— there’s that snide bitch of a sniper, Grace Armstrong, leaning against a wall with her arms folded crossly over her chest. And there are those awful Drubman cousins, nudging and whispering to each other, or whatever counts for whispering where they’re concerned.

“What?” Mary May asks, quietly. 

Before Rook can elaborate, there’s a burst of static, and the Deputy steps into view, speaking on his handheld radio. The other person is too quiet for John to hear, but Deputy Rook is crystal clear. John watches their steadily-growing audience warily. Who’ll throw the first fist? John’s betting it’ll be Nick. Or his wife, Kim, who’s sitting nearby, glaring at John.

“Oh? Okay. You mind playing it on the Resistance frequency?” Rook asks into his handheld radio. There’s static that might be a voice, and then he nods. “Thank you.”

“Somethin’ good?” one of the low-ranking Resistance members asks. He’s one of the guys who used to work up at Gardenview, if John remembers right. The last time he saw that face, it was scowling and spitting at him.

“Dutch says the Peggies started broadcasting something real interesting a couple hours ago,” Deputy Rook replies. He strides over to a nearby radio, one that’s quietly playing tinny pop music, fiddles with a couple knobs, and then, after a few moments, Joseph’s voice fills the church. As it should.

“Another seal has been broken. It…” Joseph’s voice breaks, a half-sob bursting through the static. He recovers quickly. “It brings me great sorrow to announce that my brother, John, will not be joining us in Eden. He is dead.”

Joseph sounds so mournful over the radio that for a moment John’s half-convinced that he’s imagining his own heartbeat, that he’s not really breathing, that he’s just an overactive ghost of someone else’s imagination. There’s dead silence in Father Jeffries’ church, Deputy Rook and his stupid little friends glancing at John and whispering amongst themselves.

And then Nick Rye, the bastard, starts laughing. He thinks it’s hilarious. Of course he would. He's loud, his incessant giggling drowning out the rest of Joseph's solemn eulogy.

John scowls as he tries to fit the pieces together in his head. Joseph thinks he’s dead? But how? They spoke earlier today. Unless...

John swallows down his pride, his nausea, leans back against the pew, and addresses Deputy Rook.

“When?” John demands. His tongue is clumsy in his mouth, misshaping his words. “When did he…?”

The Deputy looks thoughtful, and raises his handheld radio to his mouth again.

“Hey, Dutch? About what time did you notice that?” Rook asks, and there’s a burst of static that the Deputy takes as an answer. He looks over at John. “Says it started about half six or so.”

Half past six? John shuts his eyes. When did he contact Joseph? It was near enough six on the dot, wasn’t it? He’d just finished eating his shitty bunker dinner, some under-seasoned stew with a lot of pumpkin in it. He had been trying to decide what would boost his mood more: seeking out Holly for a quick fuck, or breaking out the extra fancy marijuana he’d stashed away in his office. He’d been leaning toward doing both when he’d received the summons, glancing at the ornate clock he’d put on the wall.

Yes, it had been around six. And they hadn’t spoken for long. There hadn’t been much to say. Joseph had judged John and found him wanting. And if Joseph started broadcasting that message afterward, then the situation is so much worse than he thought. Joseph might _never_ forgive him.

Oh, God. That can't happen. Joseph has to forgive him eventually.

It's hard to breathe. 

“Why’d you ask?” Rook crouches beside John. “You know why they took you to the boat launch?”

John looks up at the Deputy's face, all creased with concern. He swallows, stomach churning, opens his mouth and—

—and he retches, vomit pouring from his mouth, splattering over his bound forearms, dripping onto his thigh, the mingled acid and bile and sodden chunks of half-digested food burning hot against his chilled skin. Deputy Rook leaps back with a cry of surprise and there’s a shout of disgust from someone.

“Jesus, fuck!”

“Oh, man, that is nasty…”

John takes a long, shuddering breath, and, unwillingly, retches again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) General warning for this chapter and I guess all subsequent chapters. Because John isn’t exactly popular, the people of Hope County have some very… uh… creative ideas on what exactly should be done to him now he’s in the Resistance’s hands. These include various forms of torture, mutilation, and more nasty deaths than you can shake a stick at. They are going to be vocal and explicit about this. 
> 
> 2) Jess Black is going to appear, eventually. But she fucking hates parties, so she’s off chilling with Peaches and Cheeseburger and a couple bottles of Jack in the wilder parts of Holland Valley. Adelaide is also going to appear, but right now she’s busy celebrating Holland Valley’s freedom with Xander. Loudly.

There’s silence for a second, and then someone’s lifting John’s face, shining a too-bright light into his eyes. He squints, and the person gently forces his eyes fully open. His eyes water at the brightness of the flashlight, but he doesn’t make a sound. 

“Your nose is broken,” Rook says, from somewhere to his right. “Did you hit your head earlier, John?”

“Ugh,” John croaks, not deigning to properly reply. How pointless of Rook to ask when John’s going to be dead soon. 

This is humiliating. Not only has Joseph abandoned John, but apparently so has God and the universe at large. In front of the sinners he’s been fighting for months, too. He’ll never get the stains out of this shirt. Silk is always a bitch to wash, and Rook’s killed all his favourite dry-cleaners.

There’s a light touch to the back of John’s head— but it’s where he hit the wall earlier, and the pain briefly overrides everything else: the cold, the spinning, the ever-present nausea.

“No blood,” Rook mutters, his voice filtering through the haze of pain as it fades back into a persistent ache. “That’s something, I guess.”

The bright light clicks off, and John can see that it was Father Jeffries who’d been examining him. The pastor looks up at Deputy Rook, who’s accepting a bundle of cloth from a bystander, one John doesn’t know. He drapes the cloth around John’s shoulders, as if that’ll stop his shivering.

“His pupils aren’t responding properly,” Father Jeffries says. “I’d say we should get him to a hospital, but…”

“…Yeah,” Rook winces, probably thinking about how he killed all the good doctors in the county ‘cause they were members of Eden’s Gate. “You think it’s concussion? He’s been pretty quiet, and he keeps slurring.”

“Probably, but it could just as well be something worse,” Jeffries replies. He looks back at John. “You going to puke again?”

John glares at him.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Rook says, and looks at Jeffries again. “Is it okay if I use your bathtub? And, uh, your laundry machine too?”

Jeffries sighs, brow creasing.

“It is,” he replies, sounding unhappy. “The door’s unlocked.”

“Don’t know why you’re bothering to clean up that fucker,” Nick interjects. “Just take him out back and bury him in a ditch. He’s half-dead anyway, and we can’t afford to waste no supplies.”

“Hey,” Kim Rye says, sharply. “I hate him too, but he’s still a person. We can’t sink to their level.”

“Why not?” the more annoying Drubman cousin, Boshaw, argues. “I mean, Old Broseph thinks Johnny Boy here’s dead, right? We could do whatever we wanted, and nobody’s gonna know.”

“Sharky’s got a point,” Davis, the general store owner, adds. “Who cares? We won. We can do what we want. And he’d deserve it.”

“If we keep him alive, he’ll suffer more,” Mary May says, a quiet fury in her voice. “And by God does this man deserve suffering.”

Everybody in the church seems to have an opinion on the matter, and John rolls his eyes as they start squabbling amongst themselves. Predictably, they all want to do something horrible to him. One person wants to leave John filthy & bound, somewhere remote, exposed to the elements, to be eaten alive by cougars or whatever— his YES sign on the mountain side would be perfect. Someone else wants to clean and patch him up as best they can, and then bring out the thumbscrews, everybody getting an equal chance to torture the Inquisitor of Eden’s Gate as he tortured them and their loved ones, going and going and going until John’s body gives out. Even Father Jeffries is starting to look a little thoughtful at that one.

“Hey!” Deputy Rook yells, and the church falls silent again. Fear or respect? John’s willing to bet the former. “We’re not going to torture him. We’re not going to kill him. We’re better than that.”

There’s a fierceness in Rook’s voice, so strong that John almost believes what he’s saying.

“We’re going to patch this man up. Treat him like one of our own. And in return he’s going to tell us everything we want to know about Eden’s Gate, starting with how we can free the people he kidnapped.”

“But—“ someone tries to argue.

“No. We’re not going to torture him. You saw how the Peggies turned on us, how they stole and pillaged and killed, like we’re not people too. We’re better than that. We’re better than they are.”

John doesn’t manage to stifle his laugh at that. Better than Eden’s Gate? Better lying and cheating and robbing each other blind here, than co-operating in divinely ordained harmony under the Father? It’s hilarious, for the half-second that John forgets he’s not part of it any more.

Rook’s head snaps toward John and he glares.

“We’ve got a trump card now. Joseph Seed thinks his baby brother is dead. And he’s not. We’ve got him instead. So we’ve got one chance, one real chance to end all the pain and the bloodshed. Stop this pointless civil war. That’s what we all want, right? Peace? A return to normal life?”

“The Peggies got to pay for what they’ve done,” someone else says, sullenly.

“They will, I swear it. When this is all over, every one of those bastards is going to get arrested. I’ll cuff them myself if I have to,” Deputy Rook promises. Then he points at John, still bound against the pew, covered in puke and blood. “But it all starts with this guy here.”

It sounds nice enough. But John’s not fool enough to think that Deputy Rook is going to be able to contain his wrath. He killed Jacob, after all. And these Resistance fools aren’t smart enough to think in terms of the long run— if they were, they’d have joined Eden’s Gate by now. But it’s a chance— and right now, John’s willing to take any chance he can get at surviving and getting back in Joseph’s good books. So maybe he won’t resist whatever Rook’s got planned. Maybe he’ll take advantage of whatever hospitality Rook offers, before his wrath snatches it away.

There aren’t any arguments after Deputy Rook’s speech.

“Concussed people shouldn’t sleep after they’re injured, right?” Rook asks, to the room at large.

“Actually, they recently discovered that it doesn’t make a difference,” Jeffries replies. “In this case though, since we don’t have access to medical help…”

“Okay,” Deputy Rook says. “I’ll take first shift, then. Nick?”

“Oh, hell no—“ Nick replies, quickly. “Rook, you know I respect you and I’d do near ‘nough anything you ask, but I hate that guy’s guts. If he got real bad, like seizures an’ shit, I can’t rightly say I’d be able to put aside my hatred to help him. Honestly, I’d probably get a kick out of watching him suffer.”

“Well, at least you’re honest,” Deputy Rook says. “Hurk? Grace? Sharky?”

The Drubman trailer trash cheerfully agree to keep an eye on John while Rook sleeps, and John grimaces at the thought. Grace Armstrong merely nods, giving John an even glare. Rook gets a couple more volunteers, including Mary May and Father Jeffries, and then scoops John into another fireman’s carry. John groans— he doesn’t feel quite as sick now there’s nothing in his stomach, but he’s still dizzy. At least the floor is a better view than the Resistance.

“Hey, Sharky, there’s a duffel bag in the back of my truck, you mind gettin’ it for me?” Deputy Rook calls over his shoulder, as he steps into the cool night air.

“Sure thing, you’re the boss,” comes the reply.

Rook takes John to a nearby house, where he’s deposited unceremoniously next to the bathtub. Rook turns the shower water on, and holds up a knife.

“You promise not to kill me if I cut you free?”

John can kill Rook later. If he does it now, there’ll be no chance for salvation. No, he needs to get back on Joseph’s good side. If he’s going to be stuck with Rook and his Resistance, he can slowly bring the truth and light of the Father’s words to the Deputy. And then, once Joseph is satisfied, once the Collapse is over, Rook can get stuffed in a ditch somewhere and left to rot.

It’s not much of a plan, but it’s the best John’s got, now that his death has been postponed. He looks at Rook, trying to look as pathetic as possible, and nods slowly. The aching of his neck is worse now than it was while they were in the car.

“Promise,” John croaks. His throat feels raw, after puking so much. He can still feel chunks in his throat.

“Right,” Rook says. It’s a relief when John’s arms and legs are finally free. His limbs still feel weird, like they belong to someone else, but at least he’s no longer dependent on Rook’s mercy to move. He lets the cloth around his shoulders fall to the ground as he staggers to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall. It’s hard to keep his legs under him, with how the world is still spinning, but he stays upright as he kicks his boots off, peels his socks off his feet after a couple tries.

Deputy Rook sets a new toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste on the edge of the sink, and looks at John, struggling with his belt.

“You need help?” he asks.

“No,” John hisses. It’s bad enough that his survival is dependent on Rook abstaining from sin, that the Resistance saw him in such a pathetic, pitiful position at all. He won’t allow any further loss of dignity. He reaches up to take his sunglasses off— but they aren’t on his head anymore. They must have gotten knocked off at the office.

“Suit yourself,” Rook says, and returns to his work: he finds a towel in the dresser, which he hands next to the tub, and Sharky Bowshaw appears with the duffel bag.

“You really look like shit,” Bowshaw says, before leaving the room. “Both of you.”

“Thanks,” the Deputy sighs, pulling a bundle of clothes out of the bag. He quickly examines them, sets them on top of the toilet lid. He glances at John again, finally free of his belt, now working on his vest. What, does he want a fucking show?

“You going to stare all night?” John snaps, clumsy fingers barely gripping the buttons. He gets the first one, and starts on the second. Rook starts, looking surprised.

“No—“ he begins. Then he stops. “Let me do that."

Before John can argue, Rook steps forward, quickly finishes the buttons on the vest, does a couple extra buttons on John’s shirt too, and steps away, in the space of about five seconds. He strides to the door just as quickly.

“Don’t lock the door,” he says. “If you have a seizure, we need to be able to help you. And if we ask you stuff, try to answer.”

Then Rook’s gone, and John angrily throws his vest onto the floor, where it lands in a sad, wet heap. How dare he? How dare he look down on John and claim he’s trying to help? How dare he be so smug and self-satisfied?

John strips as quickly as his uncoordinated body will allow him to, which is not very quick at all. He takes his sweet time rinsing the blood and bile from his skin and hair, and then re-dresses as fast as he can: the clothes are pretty easy— there’s underwear, and a t-shirt and jeans that are a little too large for John. The buttons on the jeans give him some trouble, but he does it. He doesn’t fall, and he doesn’t puke again, even though the world is still spinning. He does cling to the sink when he brushes the acid from his teeth, though.

John glares at his reflection when he spits and rinses. His hair is a mess, and he’s got the beginnings of two black eyes. His nose is a little crooked, a little red and swollen, though at least the bleeding’s stopped. And his Eden’s Gate earring is still sitting in his earlobe, sparkling incessantly.

John reaches up, tries to take the butterfly clasp on the back off. His fingers don’t respond well enough, he keeps losing his grip on the clasp, and he can’t turn his head far enough to get a better grip because his neck hurts. Maybe if he just yanked it out…

There’s a loud explosion from outside, and John starts. There’s a pain in his ear, and a tinkle from the sink, and then there’s something hot and wet dripping down his neck and he glances up at the mirror and—

Oh, that’s a lot of blood.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to point out that while the Seed family are my favourite characters in the game, I don’t agree with everything (or even, like, half the things) John says in this chapter. Since he’s the viewpoint character, and he’s got all kinds of mental gymnastics going on, he genuinely thinks that the awful things he and his family are doing are justified. It’ll take time for him to get out of that mindset, and he certainly won’t be all the way there by the end of this fic. I’m saying this because there’s been some recent discourse about whether the Deputy is a villain, or is as villainous as the Seeds, and I don’t want anybody to mistake John’s angry ranting for my personal opinion.
> 
> (If you're at all interested in my opinion, I think Joseph is a legit prophet. And also mentally ill, but that's not the point. Rook's actions do trigger the apocalypse, but Rook is a good person who is just doing their duty and should not hold any blame for the fucked up way everything turned out. It's not Rook's fault that Joseph's God has a messed up prophecy going on. Someone would have triggered it eventually. It's just really, really bad luck on Rook's part.)

John curses, pinching his ear in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. He stumbles back, losing his grip on the sink, and falls on his ass, and of course— of course that’s when Rook shows up.

“What happened?” Rook demands. His eyes go to the sink, and then down to John, and he frowns. “Did you just—?”

“Not on purpose!” John spits, and it sounds almost entirely intelligible. “What was that?!”

“Oh, outside? That’s just Hurk. His home-made fireworks are a little hit-and-miss,” Rook explains, face clearing. He leans forward, offering John a hand up.

John doesn’t take it, struggling to his feet with one hand still pinching his torn earlobe, steadying himself against the wall to counteract the ever-present spinning. Deputy Rook looks disappointed, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he heads to the medicine cabinet, digs through the first aid kit in there.

“Let me take a look,” Rook says.

John would argue, but he’s pretty sure that would be pointless. Instead, he rolls his eyes and continues clinging to the wall as Rook gently pushes John’s bloody hand away. It burns when Rook cleans the tear with a spray-on antiseptic, but John’s survived so much worse, so he just grits his teeth against the pain.

“Looks like the bleeding’s stopping,” Deputy Rook adds, conversationally, as he tapes gauze over John’s ear. “That’s a good sign. And I got in touch with Doctor Perkins. We’ll be heading up to the Whitetails tomorrow.”

“Doctor Perkins?” John doesn’t remember the name. Perkins can’t be a local doctor— they all joined Eden’s Gate in the end. He’d have known if someone didn’t.

“Yeah, she was studying the wolves up in the mountains,” Rook says. He steps back, nods, satisfied with his work. “She has an X-ray machine, and Doctor Lindsay said he’s willing meet us up there to give you a once-over.”

Doctor Charles Lindsay, the local vet? Some wolf doctor in the mountains? Oh— Rook’s a fool, or he’s trying to get John killed. John’s rage flares again.

“A vet?” he demands. “Really?!”

“Hey, they’re damn good at what they do,” Deputy Rook frowns. “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise. Anyway, we don’t have many other options, unless you’re happy to drop dead from an undiagnosed brain bleed or whatever.”

John’s not happy to do that. He shuts his mouth, but he continues to glare. If vets and wolf doctors are the best medical help the Resistance have, it surely won’t be long before they kill themselves off with badly-tended injuries and illness. John just has to be careful, make sure he’s not one of them.

“You drink tea?” Rook asks, breaking the silence. And, without waiting for an answer, picks up John’s soiled clothes from the floor and heads into the other room. “Come on, I’ve got some ginger tea brewing. It’ll make you feel less sick.”

John follows Deputy Rook very slowly, keeping a steady grip on the wall as the floor tries to slide away. Rook glances over a couple times, but he doesn’t insist on helping.

Father Jeffries’ home is modest, but cosy. The living room has two couches, old but well-maintained, and a cheap but tasteful coffee table between them. There’s a large dining table near the kitchen door, currently covered in medical supplies and boxes of ammunition. Charlemagne Boshaw lounges on one of the couches, next to that damned dog— Boomer, wasn’t it?

Boomer looks half-asleep as Boshaw pets him absent-mindedly, scribbling in a battered notebook with his free hand. John staggers over to the couch that’s not occupied by Boshaw and flops down as Rook heads into the kitchen.

“Damn, that’s a lot of blood,” Boshaw comments, looking up from his notebook. “You rip that ugly ass thing out your ear or something?”

John doesn’t answer. Merely being in the presence of Boshaw is enough to make him seethe.

“Okay, just tryin’ to make conversation,” Boshaw mutters.

There’s another explosion outside. This time, John can hear Drubman Jr. apologising faintly to the Fall’s End revellers. There’s a clanking noise from the kitchen, and the tell-tale whirring of a washing machine starting up. John’s clothes are going to be ruined in that thing. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he can sweet-talk someone into getting one of his spare suits from the ranch.

Deputy Rook returns, carrying several mugs and a bucket. The mug he sets down on the coffee table in front of John is only half-full. On one hand, John’s furious— how dare Rook treat him like a child? On the other, he’s all too aware of his lack of co-ordination right now, and he certainly doesn’t want to spill burning hot liquid over himself. The bucket goes on the floor, near John’s head, and he can’t bring himself to be mad about that either, because being covered in vomit was disgusting and he’d rather not go through that again.

Rook sets the final mugs down, in front of himself and Boshaw, settling onto the couch. Boomer perks up, and Rook scratches him behind the ears.

“Thanks, boss,” Boshaw grins, slurping at his drink loudly.

“No problem,” the Deputy replies. He glances over to John. “So.”

So.

John’s pretty sure he knows what the next question is going to be. Rook is going to ask something about what happened at the boat launch. He can’t blame the Deputy for being curious, but he can’t be truthful, either, not if Rook’s plan hinges on John still being a high-ranking member of Eden’s Gate.

He’ll plead ignorance. Which isn’t entirely even a lie. He really doesn’t know why Grant tried to kill him.

“Not every day a man finds one of the Father’s Heralds being drowned in the Henbane,” Deputy Rook says, casually. He cradles his drink in his hands, inhaling the steam. “Especially when, last I knew, they were safely tucked in a bunker eighty feet underground. Care to tell me about that?”

“I don’t know,” John says. “They broke into my office.”

“You piss them off or something?”

John doesn’t look directly at Rook. Shrugging would entail forcing himself into a sitting position, and he’s almost comfortable, sprawled on the couch like this. If the world weren’t still spinning, and he weren’t still nauseous, and if he weren’t in pain, and if he weren't surrounded by enemies, he’d probably be able to relax.

“I’m not sure,” he says. “Maybe.”

“You sound better than you did half an hour ago,” Rook says. “Less slurred. How’d you hurt your head, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” John says. “I think someone kicked me in the face. Hit my head on the wall.”

“You think? What, they might’a punched you instead?” Boshaw interjects. “Not that I could blame ‘em. You got a real punchable face.”

“Not now,” Rook hisses. Then he turns back to John, looking thoughtful. “They put the sack over your head first, right? They didn’t want you to know where they were taking you.”

“Yes,” John says. “I think so.”

“But they didn’t bother to gag you. So they didn’t care if anybody else knew what was happening.”

Okay, that’s getting a little close to the truth. John doesn’t let the anxiety show on his face. He can misdirect Rook easily enough here.

“Most people in my Gate are civilians. Engineers, soapmakers, fruit-pickers, teachers… they wouldn’t fight a half-dozen Chosen and my lieutenant.”

“Not even to protect their Herald?”

“Most people wouldn’t have been around to see it, anyway. They would have been at dinner.”

“When did this happen? Half five? Six?”

More misdirection. Make Rook connect the dots himself. Five plus five equals eleven.

“Yes, around half five.”

“Okay, that makes sense. So the Chosen kidnap you and they tell Joseph that you’re dead. He believes them, starts broadcasting your eulogy. They’ve got themselves a prime opportunity to kill you. But why?”

“Why wouldn’t—“ Boshaw starts, only to be silenced by a sharp glare from Rook. “— okay.”

“Because I failed,” John says, simply. “The Father gave me a task, and I failed.”

There’s silence. Boshaw looks mildly confused, and Rook’s frowning again.

“That task… it was to bring me in, right?”

Hook, line and sinker. John nods.

“Joseph wanted you converted. I don’t know why. Partly to crush the Resistance, I guess. Maybe something about his prophecies too.”

“He believes I’m special, somehow…” Rook mutters. “So special that death is an appropriate response to your failure?”

No, that’s way too close again. John grits his teeth, ignores the sudden wetness at his eyes. It’s not fair that Joseph thinks Rook is so special. It’s not fair that he’d throw John out over a minor failure. None of this is fair.

“I don’t think Joseph knew about what they were doing,” John says. That much is true, at least. Joseph would never hurt him. “I think they knew I’d failed, and they didn’t want to follow a Herald who couldn’t do his job.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “But they still wanted to stay in the bunker I set up. They still wanted to be part of the religion I welcomed them into. Hypocrites.”

Rook nods, looking very sad.

“That’s rough. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Sorry?

Rook is _sorry_? The sorrow John’s been dwelling in ignites into rage: how dare he be sorry, after all he’s done?

“You’re sorry?” John hisses. “For what? For killing our followers? For destroying everything we’ve worked so hard to build?”

Rook looks mildly taken aback. He freezes in place, mug halfway to his mouth. John levers himself partially upright, and glares with all the hatred he can muster.

“Are you sorry that you tried to arrest Joseph? That you’ve spent the last few weeks terrorising innocent people?”

“You were hurting people—“ Rook protests. How dare he try to argue? If it weren’t for Rook’s bull-headedness, John would still be an adored Herald, the Reaping wouldn’t be happening, and Jacob would still be around.

“You killed my brother!” John shouts, drowning the rest of Rook’s words out. “You killed Jacob! You tried to kill me! None of this would have happened if you’d just said _yes_!”

There’s silence for a moment. Then two. Then three. Even Boshaw, motor-mouthed moron he is, can’t seem to think of anything to say to fill the void.

Deputy Rook sets his mug on the coffee table, and looks at John, mouth pressed into a thin line. He doesn't look angry. No, that's something else. That's sorrow. Frustration. 

“Drink your tea, John,” he says, and then he leaves, the front door closing with a gentle click. Boomer whines, leaping off the couch to follow him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were not previously aware, Sharky is canonically a furry. This comes up later in the chapter, and will definitely be brought up again in the future.
> 
> I have a lot of feelings about my man Sharky, but unfortunately I find him one of the most difficult characters to write. If you’re wondering what’s in the notebook, he’s trying to figure out a new recipe for his flamethrower fuel as Hope County is running pretty low on petroleum & some other specialised ingredients. He’s looking at ethanol, and maybe some Bliss too— John’s silos explode very impressively.

Boshaw, to the credit of the single braincell he possesses, doesn’t make any smart remarks as the door shuts. He just raises his eyebrows, and starts scribbling in his notebook again.

John glares at the door for a few minutes, as though Deputy Rook might reappear, before eventually turning his attention to the tea. As much as he hates to follow orders from anybody other than Joseph, he is thirsty. His throat is still sore, feeling like something’s still stuck there. And he’s still nauseous.

Almost missing his mouth entirely on his first attempt, John manages to slowly sip most of the tea, his rage almost subdued, before Boshaw starts speaking to him.

“Rough day, huh?”

John glares at him, and sets his nearly-empty mug down.

“Hey, no need to get your panties in a twist. We all been there. ‘Course I ain’t personally ever had my servants try to kill me, but y’know. Shit happens.”

“They’re not servants,” John grits his teeth. Why is Boshaw talking? Does he not understand how incredibly annoying he is? “They’re volunteers.”

“Hey— even better. Means you don’t have to pay ‘em, right?” Boshaw winks. “Not gonna lie though, thought they’d volunteer to wait on Joe, not you.”

“They volunteer to serve me in order to gain Joseph’s favour,” John corrects him. “And some of them actually like me, you know. They believe in what I’m doing.”

“That’s bullshit,” Boshaw says, without any hesitation. “You’re the least likable man this side o’ the equator.”

John opens his mouth to deliver some cutting comment in response— but he's thrown. How in the hell does Charlemagne Boshaw, the stupidest man in Hope County— nay, the entire fucking country— know what the equator is?

“Anyhoo—“ Boshaw continues. “What is it you’re doin’? Lockin’ people underground in your little fetish dungeon? The hell’s that gonna achieve, ‘cept you gettin’ your rocks off?”

“It’s not—“ John snarls, just barely stopping himself from arguing. Why is he even humouring this useless waste of oxygen? Deputy Hudson had accused him of having a torture fetish, too— what is _wrong_ with these people? “Never mind! You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh?” Boshaw leans forward, uncharacteristically serious. “Try me. Ev’rybody laughs their ass off about my fursuit, but there ain’t no better feelin’ in the world. You oughta try it. I know a guy out in Colorado, does the best ones. I can get a discount for ya.”

Ugh. John really did not want to know that. And he did not want any recommendations about anything at all— especially not fursuits— from Boshaw, thank you very much.

“It’s not a fetish dungeon,” John snaps. “I’m saving them from the Collapse. Their best chance of survival is with Eden’s Gate.”

“This Collapse… that’s what Ole Joe’s been talkin’ about, right? What is that, anyway?”

“The—?” John splutters. Has this imbecile not paid any attention to _anything_ Eden’s Gate has done in the past _decade_?!

John knows Boshaw has heard the sermons— he’d personally explained it to the man himself, many years ago, back when Faith was Selena and the Project was still in its ‘fruit baskets and pamphlets’ stage. Boshaw had taken the fruit basket (mostly filled with peaches freshly flown over from Georgia that morning) and the leaflets, and listened to, like, half of John’s suave pep talk before closing the door. And— and none of that had sunk in?

Is Charlemagne Boshaw honestly _that_ stupid?

“It’s the apocalypse,” John says, dumbly. What— what can he possibly say? “It’s the complete annihilation of humanity.”

“Except the people you got locked up in the bunkers?”

“Except the people we’ve _saved_ in our _Gates_ ,” John corrects. “The faithful will wait for seven years for the Collapse to end, and then we shall emerge into the purified world, our New Eden.”

“Why seven years? Kinda random number, ain’t it? Why not three or eighty-five or whatever?”

“Nuclear fallout,” John says. Is it worth explaining to Boshaw that, while the initial fallout will subside within weeks, there will be pockets of radiation outside of direct blast zones that could take several years to subside? The seven-year-wait is to account for that, and to allow the land to recover before the faithful try to rebuild civilisation. No, he decides, probably not.

“Uh-huh… you know, I played a video game about that once, there were all these giant man eatin’ scorpions an’ shit— you reckon that might be a big problem in New Eden?”

“Uh…” John hesitates, thrown by the sudden, strange change of topic. “I don’t think there are any scorpions this far north.”

“Ah,” Boshaw nods, knowingly. “So it’s gonna be giant snakes and spiders instead, huh?”

And, just like that, John is out of patience.

No. No, John is not going to humour this idiot any longer. He may be stuck with the Resistance for now, but he does not have to put up with Charlemage Boshaw’s inane ramblings.

“Why are you interrogating me?” John snaps. “Don’t you have something to set on fire?”

“Oh, yeah,” Boshaw nods, vigorously. “So many things. I just got round to fixin’ the speaker system at the old trailer park, was gonna celebrate our victory with a little target practice with those Angels ’til Rook brought you in. Now I gotta spend the next couple hours talkin’ to you, make sure you don’t start havin’ seizures or the like. Gotta keep you alive.”

Boshaw finishes with a big grin and finger-guns. John stares at him, dumbfounded. He finds his voice after a moment.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to kill me?”

“I mean, yeah,” Boshaw says, surprised, like they’re talking about the fucking weather. “Rook said no, though, gotta respect that.”

“Why are you following his orders?” John demands. 

“Why not?” Boshaw shrugs.

John decides very quickly that he does not like the fact that his continued survival hinges on ‘ _why_ _not_ ’.

“I mean… guy’s got a good head on his shoulders,” Boshaw continues, thoughtfully. “Total beast on the battlefield, silent but deadly, y’know? And total beast on the dancefloor too. Real nice to everyone. I dunno, man, there’s a lotta reasons to follow Rook around. He’s the one doin’ the most damage to Eden’s Gate. You know that, right?”

Yes. John knows that too well. He nearly died in a fucking plane crash, and barely escaped Deputy Rook’s subsequent wrath by the skin of his teeth. And before that, before Jacob's death— the constant shame of having to explain to Joseph almost every day that he’s lost another outpost or another convoy, the vindication and frustration mingling in his gut at his siblings’ similar confessions: Jacob losing yet more helicopter patrols, practically haemorrhaging Chosen, Faith’s shrines constantly getting blown up despite the extra security.

All because of one man.

John has fantasised about Deputy Rook’s Confession ever since the bastard dared set hands on Joseph— Joseph, of all people— and tried to arrest him. He’s envisioned the way that Rook would moan and writhe in agony underneath John’s hands, the way his sweat-soaked skin would slide against John’s instruments, how he’d buck and cry out at the burning and the whipping and the flaying. He’s literally dreamt (waking in a euphoric haze) of the way Rook would eventually look up, through heavy-lidded eyes clouded by pain and exhaustion, and, purified, all traces of sin drawn from his flesh, finally whisper “yes”.

John doesn’t reply to Boshaw, merely nods. He lies back on the couch, and the conversation thankfully dies out. They exchange a few words— Boshaw periodically refills their mugs with lukewarm tea, tells some stupid anecdote about whatever comes to his mind, to which John gives a short, non-committal reply. And time passes. Slowly.

Too slowly. 

John’s not sure of how much time has passed when the front door opens again. An hour? More? It’s hard to tell. He’s facing the ceiling, his neck too stiff and painful for him to look to the wall with the clock. He doesn’t have the energy to roll over. He’s tired. And he still feels like shit. At least the spinning is slowing a little, and he's a little less nauseous than he was.

Someone enters the house, and it’s not Deputy Rook.

Grace Armstrong comes in, carrying her sniper rifle. She glances down at John with cold eyes, before moving out of his sight.

“Shift change,” she says. “You’re free to go celebrate.”

“Oh, hell yeah!” Boshaw crows. “Disco inferno time!”

“Right,” Armstrong replies, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Uh—“ Boshaw lowers his voice, though not enough for John to be unable to hear him. He sounds hesitant. “You got any idea where Rook’s got to? He, uh, kinda left in a hurry.”

“He went to stay the night with the Ryes,” Armstrong replies, equally quietly. “He’s coming back first thing.”

“Cool,” Boshaw says. He changes to a normal speaking volume— well, normal for him. “Cool, cool, cool. See ya later, alligator.”

“In a while, crocodile,” Armstrong replies, sounding almost friendly, and— oh, thank the Lord— Boshaw’s finally gone.

Armstrong grunts as she sits down. She doesn’t speak. John can hear her disassemble and clean her sniper rifle, then reassemble it again. She’s thorough. Doesn’t rush. Jacob would’ve liked her— her quiet, confident competence so similar, and yet completely different to his quiet, confident competence. Where Armstrong is menacing, Jacob had been reassuring.

John lets his eyes fall shut, calls forth fond memories of quietly working on logistics paperwork back at the ranch as Jacob methodically and efficiently maintained his personal arsenal. The silence between them had never been awkward— no, it had been comfortable. John’s pretty sure that Jacob found the soft scratching of John’s pen and the gentle clacking of his keyboard just as soothing as John found the clicking of weaponry being disassembled. He can’t be certain— he never asked, and now he never can— but it’s nice to think of it. And when Joseph had the time to join them, his work as the Father never finished, he’d settle in the armchair, read his Bible, and murmur near-silent prayers to himself, barely audible in the huge atrium. They hadn't had much time to spend together, not with the duties of Eden's Gate weighing so heavily upon them, Joseph most of all. But the time they did have together... it had been _nice_.

“Nuh-uh,” Armstrong says, jolting John from his reverie. “Eyes open. No falling asleep here. Deputy’s orders.”

John scowls, but obeys.

Time passes very, very slowly. After a while, Armstrong turns on the radio, and before she changes the frequency to a station with sub-par sinner’s tunes, there’s a brief snippet of Joseph’s repeating eulogy:

“My brother, John, was loved by few and loathed by many—“

What bullshit. John is easily the most popular member of Eden’s Gate, save Joseph himself. He's constantly being showered with gifts and smiles and praise from the faithful. Loathed by sinners, maybe. That’s probably what Joseph meant.

As much as John wants to hear more, wants to know what Joseph is saying about him, he doesn’t feel like talking, particularly not to someone who obviously wants him dead. So he keeps his mouth shut, stares at the generic, well-painted ceiling, and prays for the dawn to come sooner.

It doesn’t.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not all the volunteers Rook got in the previous chapters will appear right now, purely because nobody is sure how long they’re going to need to keep close tabs on John and everybody wants to rest/celebrate right now. They’ll appear eventually, though, because this whole thing with Joseph isn’t going to get solved over a single night. 
> 
> This was originally going to be about twice the length, with the medical examination taking up the bulk of the chapter, but then i realised that it was already getting kind of long.

Armstrong stays near-silent the entire time she’s watching over John. She speaks only to ensure John is still awake. Minutes stretch into hours, into days— the tinny songs playing from the radio and the faint tick-tock of the clock John can’t see the only way to mark the passage of time. Eventually, she switches out with Father Jeffries, who’s quite annoyed by the blood John’s left on his walls and floor.

“Dare I ask why my bathroom looks like a crime scene?” Jeffries asks, clearly exasperated. John does not offer a reply, the blood on his shirt and the gauze on his ear as good an answer as anything he can vocalise, and Jeffries sighs. “The Lord is truly testing me…”

Jeffries is a relatively unobtrusive jailor. He sets a folded blanket on the backrest of the couch John’s occupying, refills his tea, and then heads out of sight. A few moments later, Jeffries starts reading from the Bible aloud, beginning with the Gospel of Matthew. It’s nothing John hasn’t heard before. Joseph always started his day with a Bible reading and a prayer, and back when he lived with John, he’d get up early, make a nice family breakfast, and read a passage before saying Grace. His words trickled slowly through the drowsy haze of John’s pre-caffeinated brain, a pleasant way to start the day.

Jeffries’ reading is pleasant to listen to, each word flowing smoothly into the next, each sentence dripping from his mouth like honey. His voice is quiet, almost relaxing, but there’s a strength in that quietness, steel hidden under his silken speech. There’s resolve and there’s determination and there is belief.

Jeffries is an excellent orator. His words bring the narrative to life: John can see Jesus shining in his minds eye, can almost hear His sermons, can scarcely imagine the miracles He wrought through the grace of God. And if the Jesus in John’s mind has pale blue eyes and long hair pulled back into a bun, what does that matter?

When Jeffries has finished reading the Gospel of Matthew, he moves onto Mark. But before that, he rises, drawing the curtains back and clicking the light off, letting the soft grey light of dawn filter through the room. As he reads, the light changes, growing brighter, almost golden.

As Jesus suffers on the cross, crying out for mercy on behalf of the sinners who inflicted these tortures on him, the front door opens with a quiet click. Jeffries pauses, and there’s a soft thump, like a book being closed.

“Good morning,” Jeffries says. “You look terrible.”

“Didn’t sleep well,” Deputy Rook replies, stepping into view. He glances down at John, dark circles under his eyes. “You okay?”

Not really. He’s still suffering the side-effects of that blow to the head earlier, and now he’s exhausted on top of that. And hungry, too, come to think of it. 

“Time to visit the vet already?” John asks, choosing to ignore his question.

“Yes,” Rook replies, and, somewhat passive-aggressively: “Time for you to get some medical attention. You’ve got five minutes to get ready.”

John rolls his eyes and levers himself upright, somehow more sore than when he flopped down last night. At least he’s steady enough to not need to cling to the wall this time, even if he still feels dizzy. At least Boomer didn’t join Rook this time.

“Some coffee before you go?” Jeffries offers, clearly concerned.

“No, the Ryes already gave me some before I left their place. Thanks for the offer, though.”

John heads into the bathroom, performs his ablutions, tries for about three seconds to stretch some of the stiffness out of his neck before realising that it’s an awful, awful idea. This isn’t a normal stiff neck, this is almost certainly whiplash.

John glances at the mirror, at his black eyes, and wonders for about three more seconds whether it’s worth trying to set his nose so it heals perfectly straight: the answer is, unfortunately, probably not. He’s got little to no chance of success, even with his high pain tolerance. He simply can’t see the break, there’s too much swelling and bruising.

“Wear these,” Deputy Rook instructs, when John returns. He holds out a bundle of cloth, which John accepts gingerly— there’s a worn hoodie covered in questionable stains, a pair of gloves, a tube scarf, and a baseball cap. Jeffries has moved: he’s just barely visible through the kitchen door, sorting through a cupboard.

“Why?” John asks, just to be petulant. He’s pretty sure he knows why— Rook, golden boy of the Resistance, can’t be seen with a Seed he’s not trying to kill.

“The people of Fall’s End might have agreed not to kill you, but I can’t say the same for the rest of the county. Make sure your face is covered.”

Of course the Deputy would try to spin it so it sounded like he were doing John a favour. How very convenient for him.

Once disguised to Rook’s standards, John is cuffed (“sorry, but I can’t take any chances”) and follows the Deputy out to the car, the same neon one from last night. He can’t help but marvel at the sheer lack of taste— who designed this awful thing? Probably Guy Marvel, if the shitty movie title emblazoned all over it is anything to go by. As John climbs into the awful contraption, Deputy Rook holding the door open, John can see Jeffries’ church across the road. It’s hard to tell from this angle, but it looks like his handiwork is still in place, the carefully-draped silks at the entrance floating in the breeze. He wonders if the crows are still nailed to the walls.

“Jess is gonna meet us at Dr Perkins’ lab,” Rook says, as he starts the engine. The radio flares to life, to the sinner’s station, and Rook taps the steering wheel impatiently as he waits for John to buckle up.

“Who is Jess?” John asks, his voice muffled by the scarf pulled over his mouth. 

“Dutch’s niece. Works with the Whitetails.” 

Ugh. Dutch. That paranoid wreck living on an island uncomfortably close to Joseph’s heartland. They only met once or twice, and John walked away with a black eye from the second encounter. He was an ass, a self-righteous, rude asshole who— despite being a shutaway with about fifty dollars to his name— always looked at John as though he were something Dutch just scraped off the bottom of his shoe. If Jess is anything like her uncle, John doesn’t want to meet her. Honestly, why are all of Deputy Rook’s friends so _awful_?

Rook pulls out onto the road and John settles back, watching the scenery fly past them: endless corn fields give way to gentle rolling hills, orchards turning to forests. Deputy Rook is a competent driver, though an overly cautious one— speed limits are just guidelines, especially when you’re in what essentially amounts to an active warzone and there are no other vehicles on the road. John could have driven them so much faster, though it probably helps that all of John's cars are expensive, excellent-quality sports and muscle cars, not... whatever this neon _thing_ counts as. 

As the hills of Holland Valley give way to the mountains of the Whitetails, John notices something. Deputy Rook, quite uncharacteristically, isn't making any attempt to speak to John. Which is both concerning (he needs to be on Rook’s good side if this is going to work out) and understandable (John’s righteous accusations must have hit Rook particularly hard— a sign that he feels guilty, and that’s an angle John can work with). This won't do: he can't draw Rook to the light if they're not even on speaking terms. He waits a few more minutes, just in case Rook starts feeling chatty. He doesn't. 

“Any plans for this afternoon?” John asks, after the silence grows too uncomfortable for him to bear. “I presume we won’t be with Dr Perkins the whole day.” 

Deputy Rook takes a moment to respond.

“I’m heading over to the Henbane,” he says. “I need to deal with Faith first— Joseph won’t respond to my hailing, and my eyes in the sky are telling me his compound is still on lockdown.”

That sounds about right. Almost as soon as he had proclaimed that the Reaping had begun, Joseph had announced his intention to spend the entirety Reaping praying and fasting, and had done just that— although he had also unexpectedly visited each of his siblings when this war against the sinners was just beginning, just to make sure that they were doing everything right (John wasn’t, Jacob was, and Faith’s followers were too Blissed up for anybody to be able to tell the difference). Trying to force Joseph to deviate from his plan is like trying to squeeze water from a stone— no wonder Rook is going to such extreme lengths. It’s not that Joseph is stubborn, he’s merely exactly where God wants him to be at all times, and functionally there’s not that much of a difference.

In any case, it’s Deputy Rook’s plans for Joseph that have John most worried. Although Rook's plan to 'deal with Faith' is concerning, she can be replaced. Joseph, on the other hand, is precious beyond everything else in this world. And since Jacob isn’t here any more, John needs to be able to protect Joseph in his stead. The problem is, though, that while John is a genius and a prodigy, he’s not particularly well-versed in warfare or tactics or fighting or any of the other things that made Jacob so perfectly suited to be their protector. John's kind of protection has always been different, a thousand traps laid in bureaucracy and red tape, his silver tongue steering the worst of their problems away. 

“I won’t let you hurt him,” John says, sounding much more confident that he feels. “I won’t let you hurt Joseph.”

There’s silence for a moment, and when Rook speaks, his voice is rough, like he's exhausted, right down to the bones.

“I don’t want to hurt Joseph,” he says, and it almost sounds like the truth.

“I won’t let you kill him either,” John adds.

“I don’t want to kill him. I’m going to arrest him,” Rook says. “Well— kind of.”

'Kind of'? That's concerning. But John doesn’t get to ask what that means, because they’re heading up a particularly narrow dirt path, coming to a stop near a trailer that has tables and scientific equipment set up outside. There’s someone waiting outside for them, a tall woman with dark hair and skin.

Rook is out of the car within seconds, as though he can’t stand being so close to John. Which is unfair, really, because John doesn’t even have his knives with him. Still, at least he opens the door for John while he’s unbuckling himself.

“Thank you for doing this,” Rook says, as they approach the woman. “I really owe you.”

“Nonsense,” the woman replies. John presumes she’s Dr. Perkins, because she’s wearing a lab coat and she doesn’t look anything like Dutch. “I know you wouldn’t ask without good reason, and you helped me a lot with my research. While I can’t say I’m happy about all this, it’s not a problem to help you.”

“Still,” Rook says. “Thank you.”

Dr. Perkins smiles at Rook, and her smile becomes much more brittle when her gaze slides over John.

“Good morning,” John says, because he feels like he ought to say something and it’s never a bad idea to be polite to doctors who are about to treat you, even if they are fake wolf-doctors who live in the mountains.

“Right this way,” Dr. Perkins says, coolly, and she ushers them inside.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if Perkins or Lindsay come across as out of character. I've only played their first side-quests, because I hate hunting in this game. (I'm impatient and all the animals run away from me.)

The trailer is cramped, one end housing a small room with a couple bunks and a kitchenette. The rest of the space is filled with equipment and machinery John’s rarely seen in the flesh. Dr Lindsay is already there, the pitiful wreck that he is, leaning against one of the walls with one foot tapping restlessly. He looks up when they enter, swallows nervously when he spots John.

“Hi,” he says, to Rook, and then to John: “I’m told you have a head injury?”

“Yes,” John replies. It’s tempting, so tempting, to follow that up with something smart and sarcastic, like ‘an astute observation, Doctor…’ but he manages to control himself.

John is guided to a low table, where he sits, taking off his scarf and hat.

“How did you get injured?” Dr. Perkins asks. She heads over to one of the desks, perching on the edge.

“I was jumped by my own men and got kicked in the face,” John replies, through gritted teeth. It’s humiliating to admit that he doesn’t have his followers under the same kind of iron control as Faith and Jacob.

Dr. Lindsay settles into a desk chair nearby, then runs through a litany of basic tests: “What’s today’s date? What is your name? Where are we?”. Lindsay instructs John to raise his hands separately, then together. He shines a bright light in John’s eyes— it doesn’t hurt like it did last night. John’s instructed to tilt his head a number of different ways, which he can’t do, and Lindsay gently probes the swollen skin around John’s broken nose with cold fingers. It hurts, but John has survived a lot worse. He won’t give any of this losers the satisfaction of seeing him cry out in pain.

Eventually, Dr. Lindsay sits back, scribbles a couple of notes, and looks at Deputy Rook.

“Looks like it’s a concussion,” he says. “Pretty bad case of whiplash, too. It should heal on its own, so long as he doesn’t get hit again.”

“You sure?” Rook asks, sounding surprised. “He could barely stand yesterday. He was vomiting a lot, too. I heard that was a really bad sign.”

“It can be. Sometimes it just happens, though. In this case, it’s most likely because of his inner ear getting all shaken up by the blow to his face.”

“We’ll take an X-ray and check the bones, but we don’t have an MRI or anything, so… there’s not a whole lot more we can do after that, except for keep a close eye on him,” Dr Perkins adds. “But since he made it through the night, he’ll probably be fine.”

“He’s sitting right here,” John mutters. These people are incorrigible. Their parents clearly never taught them any manners. Lindsay’s cheeks turn impressively pink, and he turns away, setting up the X-ray machine while Perkins moves the protective screens into place.

They take two: one head-on, and one from the right. Perkins shows Rook and John the X-rays, chewing on a pen absent-mindedly. Perkins gestures at the first one, while Lindsay examines at the second.

“You can see that the nose is broken fairly cleanly. I don’t think it’s going to set completely straight, but it’ll heal on its own. The swelling should be gone in a couple of days.”

Lindsay gestures at the second one. Admittedly, John isn’t an expert at reading X-rays, but everything looks pretty normal. Although…

“There’s a minor fracture at the back of his skull,” Lindsay says. “You can barely see it, but it’s there. Again, it’ll heal on it’s own, within a couple weeks. I’d recommend staying out of fights until then, but… this is Hope County.”

Yes, John thinks, bitterly. They should have stayed in Georgia— but the locals had turned on Eden’s Gate and they hadn’t had much of a choice in the end. At least Georgia had decent weather and Southern hospitality and the best peaches in the world and no Deputy Rook, so Jacob wouldn't have been murdered. But Joseph had been convinced that they needed to move to some hick county in the middle of Montana’s mountains, that God wanted them to, and there wasn’t really any way to argue with that.

“For the concussion, I’d recommend resting as much as possible,” Perkins says. “Mr. Seed, you’ll probably feel terrible for a couple days longer, but the nausea and headaches should pass within the week. You’ll feel more emotional for a while after that, and you’ll get tired more easily. You’ll be fully recovered in six to eight weeks, I’d guess.”

“You’d guess?” John demands. “So you don’t actually know?”

What a joke. These fake doctors don’t know a damned thing. Back in Atlanta— no, even in the Eden’s Gate clinics— the doctors always had something they could do, some recommendation, some medication. And these idiots aren’t even sure if John is okay, yet they’re still spouting some nonsense about ‘healing on its own’. Deputy Rook is going to get him killed through sheer incompetence.

“I can’t be sure of exactly how fast you’ll heal, no. But I can tell you that unfortunately, your personality won’t recover. You’ll still be an ass,” Perkins adds, sweetly.

John sees red.

“You—“ he spits, rising from the table. And then Deputy Rook’s in front of him, forcing him down again.

“They didn’t have to treat you,” Rook snaps. “Show some respect.”

“They don’t know a goddamn thing!” John protests. “Seriously, ‘don’t get hit on the head again’? I could have told you that! They’re idiots!”

“The only reason I’m treating you is because the Deputy asked me to,” Dr. Lindsay interrupts, the nervousness from before all but vanished. He points at John with a trembling finger. “The next time you’re in need of care, keep in mind that veterinarians don’t take the Hippocratic oath.”

“You’d let me die because you don’t like me?” John demands. Death threats? From Charles Lindsay, of all people? “Oh, how very ethical. Really, this Resistance is a truly righteous cause!”

“Protecting ourselves is more righteous than killing innocent people and stealing everything in sight,” Dr. Perkins says. “But go off, I guess.”

John opens his mouth, only for the Deputy to cover it with his hand, silencing John.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Rook says. “Dr. Perkins, Dr. Lindsay, thank you for helping me. I’m sorry about him,” Rook jerks his head in John’s direction. “Lindsay, I’m headed back to Hope County Jail— you want to come with?”

“No,” Dr. Lindsay says, eyes fixed on John. “I appreciate the offer, but— definitely not. Anyway, Adelaide promised to ‘copter me over.”

And that’s it. John is dragged from the trailer by the Deputy, shoved unceremoniously into the car, his scarf and cap tossed onto his lap.

“Put them on,” Rook says, slamming the door shut, and he starts the car.

The drive down to the Henbane River is faster than the drive from Holland Valley. For a start, Rook’s gripping the steering wheel tight, his mouth pressed into a thin, unhappy line. Rook’s ignoring the speed limit, swerving around the other vehicles on the road. Exactly the way that John likes to drive, but it feels wrong when Rook does it. It’s too wild for someone who pretends to behave so cautiously.

“You seem pretty mad,” a girl leans forward from the backseat. John yelps, startled, but the Deputy remains unfazed. Just how long had she been back there?

“I am,” Rook replies, eyes not moving from the road.

“You want to go blow up some of those shrines? Always makes me feel better,” she says.

“Why not?” Rook asks, and it doesn’t really sound like a question. He swerves sharply, barely avoiding a Reaping truck. The driver yells, starts shooting. The mirror near John cracks, and he swears.

Oh, _shit_. Nobody knows that John is here. Nobody at Eden’s Gate knows that John is with the Deputy. They’re going to kill him, trying to take down their biggest threat. Why didn't John think of that before now?

John squeezes his eyes shut, praying silently. He doesn’t want to die here. Deputy Rook kicks his leg, and John opens his eyes and Jesus fucking Christ, Rook’s half-out of the window, shooting back at the truck driver. That’s— that’s _unbelievably_ dangerous. This isn't _safe_. If Eden’s Gate somehow don’t kill them, then Deputy Rook certainly will. 

In the rearview mirror, John can see the girl— who must be Jess— shooting arrows at the driver. One of the attacks from Rook or Jess hits, and the truck swerves off the road, blood splattering what's left of the Eden's Gate windshield. Rook settles back into his seat, re-holstering his pistol. He takes out his handheld radio, eyes fixed back on the road once more.

“Hey, Nick— I could do with some air support. Got a special package to deliver and I’ve been getting shot up.”

There’s a burst of static, and Rook pockets his radio again, apparently satisfied. John’s heart hammers in his chest as he tries to breathe normally again.

“Faith must be really pissed off,” Rook says, casually, as though he didn’t almost kill them all less than a minute ago.

That’s an understatement. John wonders what’s happening at Faith’s bunker. She’s always been under more pressure than John or Jacob, with Joseph’s penchant for replacing her unworthy predecessors at the drop of a hat. And with both John and Jacob (supposedly) out of the picture, he can only imagine how much more pressure she’s under now. Joseph can be truly terrifying when he’s unhappy, all quiet disapproval and pointed words.

There are a few minutes of blessed silence, as John catches his breath. He hears the helicopter before he sees it, the rotors far louder than the car engine.

“Shit—“ John hisses, glancing at Rook, who seems entirely unconcerned, not even bothering to look up at the helicopter _shooting at them_.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, as there’s a burst of static from his radio, shortly followed by gunfire.

John can see the bullets hit the dirt road around them, and he swears— ‘don’t worry about it’?! Really? He’s going to die. He’s going to _die_.

A bright yellow plane swoops through the air, visible in the cracked mirror. Then, after a short burst of even more gunfire, there’s no more, and John can see the helicopter fall out of the sky in the rearview mirror, crashing to the ground behind them in flames.

“Thanks, Nick,” Rook says, into his handheld. There’s a burst of static in reply.

The rest of the journey is, thankfully, uneventful, John catching the occasional glimpse of Rye and his stupidly bright plane looping constantly around them. Jess leans forward at one point, turns on the radio, the sinner’s station once again. The music is a little better this time around, some songs that John recognises and doesn’t entirely hate.

When they arrive at Hope County Jail, it’s a fucking mess. There are burnt-out vehicles scattered all over the parking lot, dead bodies left to rot in the open air. There’s smoke in the air, exhausted-looking survivors patrolling the pockmarked walls, worn guns in their hands. Rye’s still sweeping the air in careful, controlled spirals.

As they enter the yard that surrounds the prison, they attract a lot of stares. John curses under his breath. It’s the cuffs. Sure, he’s disguised, but there’s only one reason Rook would cuff someone in Hope County’s current situation, and that would be because they’re a member of Eden’s Gate— and a high-ranking one at that. Which is rich, because if anything, the civilian crime rate has quintupled since the Reaping began.

Rook leads John into the building, Jess following silently behind them. They receive a few greetings: “good to see you, Dep!” and “hey, Jess”. It's cold in here, much more so than outside. John is almost (but not quite) grateful for the stained hoodie.

They make their way to the main cell block, now mostly converted into a strategy centre. There are maps spread over every available surface, crates of ammunition stacked along the walls. Rook heads over to a man John recognises, standing in front of an industrial radio setup: Sheriff Earl Whitehorse. He looks paler and thinner now, and much more exhausted.

“Hey, Sheriff,” Rook says. Whitehorse raises his eyebrows as his gaze hits John. Clearly this disguise is useless.

“Well, I’ll be…” he mutters. Whitehorse strides to Rook, shakes his hand warmly. “Great work, Deputy. We’ll take him from here.”

“What?” John asks, sharply. He glares at Rook. “Are you leaving me here? You can’t do that!”

Rook rubs his eyes, tiredly. He sighs, and looks at John, dead in the eyes.

“Yes, I can,” he says. And then, to Whitehorse: “Thanks.”

And then Rook is gone, Jess following closely behind.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t notice before now, but some of the cells in the jail are being used as rooms for the Resistance. It looks like Tracey has cell 6, as she’s often standing there. I’d guess 11 is Virgil’s, because of the desk & officey nature of that room. 2 may belong to Whitehorse, because it’s much less lived-in, and Whitehorse spent an unspecified amount of time being Blissed out his mind before eventually joining the Cougars.

“Deputy!” John yells, a last-ditch effort to stop Rook. He can’t just leave John here— John needs to get into his head, get back in Joseph’s good graces. Why is the Deputy so mad, anyway? All John did was point out the obvious— that the vets were idiots. Anybody with a pair of eyes and ears could have told him the same.

Rook doesn’t turn, the hallway door swinging shut behind Jess a second later. One of the Resistance women, taking stock of the ammo crates stacked around, looks up, toward John, frowning. His heart stops. Shit, does she recognise him? If they figure out who he is, John’s _dead._

As though reading his mind, Whitehorse takes John by the shoulder and steers him toward the staircase. The woman turns back to her task.

“Now, from what I hear, it’s been a pretty tough day for you,” Whitehorse says, conversationally. “Let’s try not to make it any tougher by inciting a riot.”

A nice way of saying ‘shut up right now’. Still, John takes the hint and stays quiet. This situation might be useful. If he can get Whitehorse on his side, then Whitehorse’s opinion is surely going to sway Rook, and John’s going to be able to get back in Joseph’s good books before the week is out.

Whitehorse leads John up the stairs, stops outside a cell. The ones in this jail are mostly shared, four bunkmates sharing a living space divided into two. This cell is one of the few single cells available, and it’s just horrible: it’s cramped, it’s dirty, and there’s absolutely no privacy— the bunks and the toilet are both in plain view of anybody walking up the goddamn stairs.

For all John’s legal experience, he’s never actually seen a prison in real life before, only in TV shows and movies. It’s even worse than he thought. How on earth had Joseph stuck it out in a place like this for a whole two weeks before meeting him? There’s no natural light, no colours, nothing to stimulate the mind at all. John can already feel himself losing it, and it’s been— what, three minutes?

“In you go,” Whitehorse says. He pushes at John’s shoulder gently, but insistently, and John has no choice but to obey. The Sheriff swings the door shut, locks it quickly. “We’ll get you a blanket for that bunk, and a pillow and such. We don’t have much here, but what we do have, we’ll gladly share.”

Gladly? That’s a fucking lie, and not even a convincing one at that.

“Now, son,” Whitehorse says, irritatingly calm and fatherly. “Is there anything else you need?”

So many things, John thinks. A door that’s not fucking see-through. His own clothes, a decent meal, and his brothers at his side. A bag of ‘oregano’ wouldn’t go amiss, either.

“I’d like a Bible,” he says, after a moment. “And a Book of Joseph.”

Whitehorse nods. “I can arrange those.”

Whitehorse turns to leave, conversation apparently over. But John’s still cuffed, and John’s got questions.

“Am I under arrest?” John asks, before he can step away. Whitehorse stops, glances back at him. He looks surprised.

“I think we’re past arrest now, son,” Whitehorse says, his gaze level, unblinking. God, it’s just like talking to Joseph, except Whitehorse’s absolute certainty stems from legal authority instead of divine.

“If I’m not under arrest, you shouldn’t lock me away. That’s a violation of my constitutional rights as an American citizen,” John says. He’s not expecting this to actually work, but a reminder that John’s the best fucking lawyer in the country can’t go amiss.

“Like the constitutional rights of all those people you have locked in your bunker?”

John says nothing, merely keeps steady eye contact with Whitehorse. He has the right to remain silent. The Fifth Amendment is a wonderful thing. Even if he’s not technically under arrest right now, he probably soon will be. Not that it matters— the Collapse will render any attempt at a trial moot.

Whitehorse sighs, and John smiles under his scarf. He’s won this round.

“I can’t let you out,” he says. “This isn’t to punish you, this is for your own protection.”

John understands that, and to be honest, he sort of agrees. He’d rather be free to follow Rook and sink his claws in deep, of course, but if he’s stuck in this jail, he certainly doesn’t want to be ripped to shreds by the Resistance. The fact that Whitehorse has an investment in keeping John alive is something John is keen to use to his advantage.

“Let’s make a deal. I uncuff you, and in return, you don’t speak unless it’s absolutely necessary. And by that I mean only when you’re spoken to, or in an emergency. These people aren’t stupid, and someone’s going to recognise your voice eventually. It’s very distinctive.”

John nods, eagerly pushes his hands through the bars. It’s a small price to pay. And co-operating now will mean that Whitehorse is going to be easier to manipulate later.

Whitehorse doesn’t have Rook’s key, so he picks the lock on the cuffs in about five seconds using the pin on his Cougars badge. It’s almost impressive.

“Now, if there’s no further business?” Whitehorse raises an eyebrow, waits for a few seconds for John to reply. He doesn’t, merely shakes his head. “Then I’ll see you soon.”

John nods, and goes to lounge on the bunk. It’s uncomfortable, a thin, lumpy mattress that barely disguises the cold, hard metal underneath, but— God, how has he sunk so low?— he’ll take anything over the dusty floor. John lies on his side, carefully avoiding the sore, fractured part of his skull, and glares at the peeling paint on the wall before him.

It’s just like Deputy Rook to hand John off to someone else. To make someone else do the hard work. This had better not be permanent— if it is, then John’s absolutely screwed. And John wouldn’t put it past Rook to just decide that John isn’t worth the effort, despite all his nice words in Father Jeffries’ church the night before. It’s completely ridiculous. Why on earth is Joseph so fixated on a man so self-centred? So sinful.

Okay, fine. John’s well aware that Rook’s status as the leader of the sinners is the point. If Joseph converts the worst sinner of them all, the most vicious and the most cruel and the most respected, then the rest would follow easily enough. Some would just give up and submit to the Project. Others would actually willingly convert. Few would continue to fight on after their leader joined the so-called enemy.

That doesn’t change the fact that converting Rook was a nigh-insurmountable task, though. John probably could have done it, if Rook were not so blinded by wrath and pride and… well, all the other sins. But Rook was blinded, and so John failed, and Joseph surely knew that was why John failed. And— well, it’s unfair. This entire situation is unfair. How on earth can Joseph justify throwing John out of Eden when his failure wasn’t his fault? Rook was the one who refused to see the truth!

John bites his lip, curls his fingers into fists, cold rage sitting heavy in his stomach. This is bullshit. He wants to throw something, break it against the wall, but there’s nothing in here to destroy. He wants to feel the warming comfort of high-quality Japanese whiskey gently smouldering its way down his throat, the enlightened haze of his favourite marijuana, or even just the calming nicotine of a regular cigarette. And, deep down, he wants more than even that, old habits still singing their siren song. The incredible hyperfocus that always followed a couple lines of coke, ’til John talked himself hoarse discussing whatever minor detail that had caught his attention. To lose himself in the hedonistic heaven of an endless string of warm bodies pressed against him, into him, the agony and the ecstasy mingling, rising, a mind-shattering orgasm or three before starting the cycle anew in the morning.

But here John is, lying on a shitty bunk in a shitty cell in the country’s shittiest jail. It’s cold and it’s dirty and he hates it, and he can’t do a damned thing about it until he sweet-talks Rook into… well, something.

John closes his eyes, and thinks. Rook’s got to return to the jail eventually. So all John needs to do is talk to him, convince him that John is going to be much better at Rook’s side than rotting in some cell.

So, why is Deputy Rook in the Henbane at all? If John had to guess, he’d say there are two probable reasons. Firstly, Rook and the rest of the Resistance want Faith dead, just like they wanted John and Jacob dead. Secondly, they want Marshal Burke back. Both Faith and Burke are in Faith’s Gate. So that’s where Rook’s going to focus his attention.

Obviously, Deputy Rook is going to assume that John has some secret knowledge about Faith’s operations and her Gate— which is true. He had the damn thing built and supplied and he’s the one who pays for everything, so he knows more or less what his siblings are up to. He still has no idea why Jacob wanted those fancy little music boxes, but at least Jacob’s request ledgers had been organised. That’s more than he can say for either Faith or Joseph.

John can probably strike a deal with the Deputy— whatever information he wants about Faith’s operations, and in return he can accompany Rook in his orgy of chaos and violence. No— he shouldn’t frame it like that. John can offer Rook as much information as he wants about Faith’s operations. And he can give Rook all that information so much more quickly and concisely and accurately if he’s with Rook, in the flesh, instead of trying to work out what he’s after via a shitty radio connection. Yes. That’s better…

John really doesn’t have anything better to do, so he alternates between planning hypotheticals (at some point Rook is going to have to ask him for help in freeing Hudson, and oh, that’ll be fun) and listening to the sounds of the strategy centre (mostly nothing interesting, but he catches a couple words here and there, something about a Blissed-out moose?).

Eventually, at some point, John falls asleep.

It’s fitful. He wakes a few times, to the same artificial white lighting, too drowsy to do more than try and fail to focus his bleary eyes on the wall in front of him, limbs too heavy to move, and he drifts back into sleep not long after.

When he finally wakes— really wakes, it’s slow and uncomfortable. His back hurts and he’s thirsty and he really has to pee. His muscles are stiff and sore, but at least he’s less dizzy and he doesn’t really feel sick any more. His watch reads a little past ten, though whether that’s morning or night is anybody’s guess.

The first thing John notices is that someone was in his cell while he was out cold. They made a couple trips, unless there were two of them. There’s a blue medical screen in front of the toilet now, and a crate pressed against the wall like a makeshift table. There’s a covered tray and some cutlery, and a couple bottles of water. There’s also a half-roll of the cheapest toilet paper John’s ever had the misfortune of seeing, and a quarter-bar of soap wrapped in a raggedy washcloth. On the bunk above the one John’s been sleeping on is a folded blanket, a pillow so thin as to be useless, a battered King James Bible, and a slightly scorched copy of the Book of Joseph.

The second thing John notices is the silence. There’s nobody in the strategy centre— no voices, nothing. Maybe they’re all sleeping. Some of the cells look like they’ve been converted into bedrooms: the one across from John has been stuffed with furniture and privacy screens. Either way, it doesn't matter. All John can do right now is wait.

John stretches, relieves himself, pokes at the cold food that’s been left out for him (fresh though burned meat, canned vegetables, waxy potatoes) and drinks some water. He flicks through the book of Revelations, giving chapter six in particular a good, thorough read. The words that have sustained him for so long aren’t comforting like they used to be, a stark reminder that unless he actually gets Rook to Joseph, he’s not going to enter Eden with the rest of the faithful. He’ll be one of the burning non-believers, struck down by the wrath of God.

He moves onto the Book of Joseph, but that doesn’t help either. The careful descriptions given by Joseph seem less like he’s kindly skimming John’s myriad sins in order to save him the shame of having every new follower know exactly how much of a mess he’d been when Joseph walked back into his life, and more like a quiet damnation of John’s current habits: he’s starting to feel a little bad about smoking weed when Joseph wasn’t around, a little ashamed of the several friends-with-benefits relationships he’d struck up with some of their more discreet followers. Of course he’s followed the wording of Joseph’s orders: no more addictive drugs, and he’s really taken to heart what his therapist said about his addiction to sex. He’s not a thing to be used, he has worth, and he’s so much better now— it’s just casual stress relief nowadays, instead of an insatiable need to feel something, anything, everything. And yet there’s a little doubt: he knows Joseph would be happier if he took no drugs at all, if he conformed to a more Biblical approach to sex and marriage. 

John almost doesn’t notice when the screaming starts, muffled as it is through the walls of the jail. It’s only when someone enters the strategy centre, the screaming carrying through the air, that John sets down his Book of Joseph, jolted from his damning thoughts.

One of the women of the Resistance— John’s seen her a few times before, she was Faith’s friend before she was Faith, but what was her name?— halts outside John’s cell.

“Whitehorse says you might know something about the Bliss,” she says, slightly out of breath, a light sheen of sweat on her dark skin. “Is that true?”

John blinks. He’s no chemist, but he’s seen Faith’s notes.

“Yes,” he says. Is that the source of the screaming? A bad Bliss trip?

“Come on, then,” the woman says, quickly unlocking the door. “We have to hurry.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sick right now so please excuse any mistakes you see here. it's hard to get inside john's head when my own feels like cotton wool and mucus :/

The woman grabs John’s arm roughly, dragging him down the stairs and through the hall and round a corner and then they’re in a makeshift infirmary, where half the jail population seem to be crowded round a couple beds.

“Got him!” the woman yells, pushing John forward. There’s five or six people trying and failing to hold a thrashing figure down on one of the beds: Marshal Burke, eyes milky-white, pupils barely pin-pricks, the source of the screaming.

They got him out of Faith’s Gate? Jesus, _how_?

“No! No, no no!” Burke howls, unseeing eyes wide with terror. He’s so loud. John can feel his headache returning. Deputy Rook is on the other bed, curled in on himself, whatever words he’s murmuring to himself drowned out by the Marshal. Rook must have been the one to free Burke, then. Of _course_.

Whitehorse looks up from where he’s holding Burke down. 

“Never seen a Bliss trip this bad before! Normally they’re Angels by now!” he yells, just barely audible over Burke’s continual noise. “Can you help?”

This really isn’t John’s area of expertise. He doesn’t get involved with the Bliss, save financing it and listening to Faith’s ramblings about it whenever she needs to talk herself to a solution. Still, he knows a few things. Like the fact that once Faith’s got her claws sunk deep into someone, they can’t ever be truly free.

Whitehorse is obviously desperate. The Resistance don’t know a thing about the Bliss, except how powerful it is. This is a chance to show off, to ingrain himself as a necessary, helpful kind of evil. So despite the fact he doesn’t actually know what he’s doing, John nods and steps closer, leaning over the Marshall. He’s still screaming. John’s ears hurt.

John glances back at Rook, who’s tossing and turning a little on his cramped camp bed, but otherwise seems stable. His eyes are Blissed-out too. So why is there such a difference in reaction?

Oh... That’s right. Where Deputy Hudson had vocally hated being locked in John’s Gate, and Deputy Pratt had been quickly forced into submission by Jacob, Marshall Burke had been an almost ideal convert in Faith’s Gate. Faith had been so smug about it over the radio.

_“The Marshall’s doing so well,”_ she’d giggle, as John pored over inventory papers at his ranch in lieu of resting between long, gruelling Cleansings and Confessions with the sinners. _“He’s so happy in the Bliss!”_

Honestly. The Bliss. It was almost a miracle: a highly effective psychotropic drug that was stupidly cheap and easy to produce, had few side-effects, could be safely taken with all other medicines, resulted nigh-invariably in pleasant trips, and was almost entirely devoid of any addictive qualities. And of course, Joseph being Joseph, the ever-concerned Father who’d never forgotten John’s sordid past, it was also almost completely ineffective on the Seed family.

A little light-headedness, a few sparkles at the corners of his eyes. That’s all. No fun trips through some hallucinatory garden for John. Whatever the Marshall had been seeing in the Bliss must have been real nice, for him to be wailing like a fucking toddler over being cut off from it.

John takes off his hat, and rifles through the medical supplies crammed onto a nearby dresser. He needs something similar to the Bliss. Something that’ll keep the Marshall docile, and more importantly quiet, while the Bliss runs through his system. The closest thing he finds are a couple syringes filled with morphine, plastic tips stuck to the end of the needles.

“No! No drugs!” the Marshal howls. He breaks free from one of the men and grabs John’s arm, causing John to almost drop the syringe he’s holding. That's probably why they didn't just drug him right away.

Annoyed, John leans back over him, careful to avoid moving his stiff neck. He yanks the scarf down from his face, and the Marshall stops screaming for a moment, shocked to see a Seed that’s not the angelic Faith. John grins. He knows an opportunity when he sees one.

“She gave you to me for Confession,” John says, the lie falling easily from his mouth. “If you want to go back to the Bliss, all you have to do is play along nicely. That’s what you want, right? To go back to Faith?”

The Marshall hesitates, then nods eagerly, pathetically, like a kicked puppy returning to its abusive owner. 

“Good,” John says, and he stabs the needle into the Marshall’s skin with more force than really necessary. His ears are still ringing, for fuck’s sake.

Once the Marshall’s Blissed eyes roll back into his head, his body relaxing, John pulls the scarf back over his mouth and picks up his hat again. When he turns to face Whitehorse again, all eyes in the room (save Rook, Blissed-out as he is, still whispering unintelligibly to himself) are on him. Some appear angry, but most look confused. Whitehorse is frowning, but his body language is showing relief rather than fury. Annoyingly, nobody seems very grateful that John’s just saved their eardrums.

“He’ll be fine now. Long as you keep dosing him until the Bliss is gone, anyway,” John says. “I suppose that’ll be about a week.”

“Nice trick you pulled there,” Whitehorse says. “Would’ve made things a lot easier if you’d kept the scarf on.”

“Would you prefer that he kept screaming?” John asks, quirking an eyebrow upward since the rest of his face is hidden. “I don’t, personally. This way, he’ll co-operate until he’s clear-minded again."

Whitehorse nods, conceding the point. He opens his mouth, but is interrupted before he can begin speaking.

“John _fucking_ Seed?” the woman who brought John here asks, sounding utterly furious. Clearly the Sheriff hadn’t told anybody else exactly who their esteemed prisoner was. “You brought _him_ here? Isn’t he supposed to be  _dead_?”

“Rook brought him in,” Whitehorse says. “There was a bit of trouble at his bunker, from what I hear. Anyway, Rook can’t keep an eye on him out in the field, and with the Sheriff’s Department in Fall’s End all burnt out…”

“We can’t trust him!” the woman protests. “Him or the Marshall!”

“She’s right, you definitely can’t trust the Marshall,” John says. “He’s Faith’s now. You heard him just now.”

“We’ll see what he has to say when he’s sober,” the Sheriff replies. “Let’s not be hasty, Tracey.”

“Right,” John mutters, rolling his eyes. Yes, just ignore the very important warning. A fantastic idea. First they want his help, and now they don’t? Idiots, the lot of them.

“Come on,” Whitehorse beckons to John like he’s a child. “Back to the cell with you.”

“We should just kill him,” one man says. He’s pretty young, barely out of high school. He’d been holding the Marshall’s leg down. “Seed, I mean. What are we keeping him alive for, anyway?”

“Leverage,” Whitehorse replies. “Nothing more, nothing less. Nobody’s going to kill Mr Seed here until after we deal with his brother.”

There it is again. Another hint at the fate Rook’s got planned for Joseph. He’d like to ask, but now’s definitely not the time. Better to ask Whitehorse privately.

"Do what you want," Tracey says, bitterly. She clearly understands that this is not up for debate. "Just don't expect me to play nice."

Nobody seems to want to argue with the Sheriff after that. It’s not that he’s forceful, he’s just… fatherly. He just seems to expect the best of everybody, until they want to give it. Just as Joseph expects the best of his flock. Nobody tries to stop them or hurt them as Whitehorse leads John back to his cell, though there are more dirty glares and angry mutterings that John cares to count.

“Seriously, though, you really can’t trust the Marshall,” John says, as he steps back inside the cell. “Faith’s in his head, and she won’t leave him so easily.”

John’s not entirely sure how Faith commands her followers, just that she somehow does. Divine providence, according to Joseph. Weird brainwashing shit, according to Jacob. However it’s done, Faith hasn’t shared the secret with John.

“I know,” Whitehorse says, locking the door.

“Don’t let him near any weapons,” John adds. And then, after a moment, he continues. It doesn’t count as betrayal if his end goal is still to reunite with Joseph. And anyway, it's not fair that Faith, the fake sister, should be allowed to enter Eden if John can't. “And don’t let him near anything you’d consider important. Keys, radios, whatever.Once she figures out he’s here, she’ll have him destroy or sabotage anything he has access to. She doesn’t like to lose her toys.”

“I’ll tell the others,” Whitehorse promises. “When Burke wakes up again."

Whitehorse doesn’t leave, like John expected. Instead, he vanishes for a few minutes, returning with a chair that he places right outside the cell door. Then he sits down, rifle across his knees, facing the rest of the room.

A guard, John thinks. Does he really trust the people of the jail so little? Obviously John doesn’t trust any of them, but it’s surprising that Whitehorse doesn’t either. If he really thinks that John might be attacked, then why keep him here at all? It might be secure, but there are bunkers and empty homes scattered all over the county. Hell, he could even have stayed in Fall’s End. It’s probably because Rook wanted to keep an eye on him, John decides. He’ll ask the Deputy later.

“Do you really think I’m in danger?” John asks, when his curiosity gets the better of him.

“No,” Whitehorse says, not turning around. “Nobody’s going to try anything so long as I’m here.”

Whitehorse offers no more information. So John resigns himself to waiting again, until Deputy Rook comes down from his Bliss high, is lucid enough to speak.

John opens his Bible once more, this time reading Lamentations. It’s an old favourite. It’s wonderful to imagine these words spilling from the mouths of the sinners, the terror and the regret as they finally recognise the errors of their ways as the Lord cleanses the earth with the Collapse. It makes him feel better to think that he’ll be the one to open their eyes. That he’ll be the one to open Rook’s eyes.

“What exactly are you planning to do to Joseph?” John asks, as the widows of ancient Jerusalem weep for their fallen sons and husbands. He’s not expecting much of a reply from Whitehorse. He’s clever, holds his cards close to his chest in a way that Rook doesn’t.

“We’re going to arrest him,” Whitehorse says. “And we’ll be sending him to the hospital in Missoula for a psych eval.”

A psych eval? John scowls. How dare they accuse Joseph of being crazy? The sinners really would do anything to avoid admitting that the end of the world is nigh.

“He doesn’t have psychosis. He is a _prophet_ ,” John says, through gritted teeth. “The Collapse is coming, whether you want to admit it or not.”

“Why can’t he be both?” Whitehorse asks. Which is a ridiculous thing to suggest. Those are two polar opposites.

John laughs, short and bitter. He's not playing Devil's Advocate with Whitehorse. No, he should be strong in his faith, now more than ever. Surely God will draw him back to Joseph again soon. 

“I wasn’t joking, son,” Whitehorse says. “Look around: this is prepper country out here. Even I got myself a little bunker under my house. We’re all trying to prepare for whatever awful thing’s about to happen, ain't nobody trying to dispute that something's coming to get us all. When I was your age, it was nuclear war. Nowadays it’s climate change. Something’s going to get us, your brother is right about that. But the killing? The stealing? The kidnapping? That ain’t right. That ain’t Biblical.”

“Someone’s never read the Old Testament,” John says, and turns his page.

“It’s true, I don’t read my Bible all that much any more. It’s hard to believe,” Whitehorse says.“But let me give you one last thing to think about tonight: when’s the last time your brother smiled at you?”

John’s heart stops. Surely Whitehorse hasn’t figured it out— there’s no way he could know that Joseph kicked him out, right? John’s been careful, he hasn’t said anything that could lead even the idiots of the Resistance to that conclusion. So how—?

John shakes his head. No, it’s not that. It’s a reference to Joseph’s mental health. He vaguely remembers the second time he tried therapy, a couple years after his rehab, just after he'd moved to Rome full-time. The therapist had been convinced that John suffered from some kind of psychosis. What had she called it? Borderline personality something? John can't remember any more. It would have been hilarious if it hadn’t been so offensive. She was lucky he’d only trashed her office instead of blacklisting her like he’d intended, thanks to Joseph’s calming hand on his shoulder and a solemn word on his lips.

_“A lot of the time, people with mental illnesses suffer from what’s known as ‘negative symptoms’ first,”_ she’d explained, the one good thing she’d done. _“A lack of emotional displays is often the easiest symptom to spot. A lack of a regular sleep pattern. A lack of interest in the world around them. The list goes on.”_

It’s been a long time since John last saw Joseph happy. Or well-rested. Or motivated by anything other than potentially surviving the apocalypse. But that doesn’t mean anything.

John curls up on his bunk. He will not lose faith. He can't.

He stays there, glaring at Whitehorse's back until he falls asleep again. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is shorter than the rest, mostly because i'm sick and it seemed like a good place to leave off. My girl Hudson will be showing up real soon and I am EXCITED.

 The hours pass like days, and the days pass like weeks.

The artificial lighting stays the same, day or night. John’s watch keeps ticking forward, second by second by agonising second.

Whitehorse isn’t always John’s jailor. He switches out with others from time to time: Tracey, a couple of nameless Resistance goons. They don’t talk to him, for the most part, and that’s exactly the way John likes it. He’d rather have no conversation than no intelligent conversation.

John gets into a routine in the awful little cell. He wakes up. He washes his face with the cheap soap he’s been afforded and then brushes his teeth with a too-soft brush and some chalky paste the jail has probably had stashed in a storeroom since the eighties. He doesn’t bother with the scarf and hat anymore, keeping them on the top bunk. They all know who he is.

John eats whatever terrible food he’s given (oh, and it is _always_ terrible). He checks each meal thoroughly before he eats it, always pleasantly surprised that there are no nails or glass or rat poison mixed in. He reads his Bible and his Book of Joseph, and he prays. He prays for guidance, for serenity, for Joseph’s familiar and loving embrace. John paces the cell, plotting in his head: how he’ll worm his way in when Rook inevitably asks for his help. How he’ll prove himself an invaluable asset to Rook with his intellect and his creativity and his excellent knife skills. How, after Atonement, he’ll caress Rook’s sweat- and tear-stained face and whisper the Word of Joseph to him, as Rook arches weakly upward, desperate to be filled with holiness once more.

Eventually, when John is tired, he brushes his teeth again and settles back onto his uncomfortable bunk, listening to the murmurs coming from the main room until sleep claims him once more.

One day— it might have been two days since the thing with Burke, or it might have been a fortnight, John really isn’t sure— Whitehorse shows up, holding out a pair of handcuffs.

“We’ve got a job for you,” he says.

John looks up from his scripture: the final part of Joseph’s Word, the call to arms, the warning.

“I’m a little busy right now,” he replies, fighting the urge to grin. Finally, they’ve decided that they need him. Oh, this is going to be _good_.

“It wasn’t a request, son,” Whitehorse says, firmly. John carefully marks his place and puts down the book, allows Whitehorse to cuff him before he opens the door.

He’s taken downstairs. Deputy Rook is standing over a map of Hope County, and Deputy Pratt stands silently next to him, arms crossed. Marshall Burke sits backward on a nearby chair, an IV still stuck in his arm. Somehow, he manages to look worse now than when he’d been Blissed-out and screaming, all gaunt and sad, dark rings under his eyes. Still, it looks like Whitehorse followed his advice: Burke is unarmed.

Rook looks equally exhausted, paler than he should be, with sunken eyes. He glances at John and Whitehorse as they approach.

“How well do you know the layout of your bunker?” Rook asks.

“Pretty well, I guess,” John shrugs, as though he doesn’t know every nook and cranny in the place, like he didn’t personally design half the refurbishment or buy all the supplies and furniture.

“Good enough to guide me through it over radio?” Rook asks.

“Maybe,” John replies. “I’d be better at navigating if I were there with you.”

“Nice try,” Rook says, a tight, bitter smile stretching his mouth.

“Why do you want directions inside my bunker?” John asks. He already knows the answer, of course. Hudson and the other sinners. Maybe supplies, too. It’s one of the first things you learn at law school: never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to.

“If we’re going after Faith and Joseph, we’ll need all the help we can get,” Rook says. “I need Hudson. And I need to free the people you kidnapped.”

“I didn’t _kidnap_ them, I _saved_ them,” John corrects him. “If you free them, they’ll all certainly die in the Collapse. Is that what you want? To kill more people?”

John half-expects Rook to say ‘yes’, the bloodthirsty sociopath he is. Instead, there’s a slight twitch of the eyebrow and the mouth, and that tells John all he needs to know: Rook hates killing. Which is surprising, considering how much he indulges in it.

“Told you it was useless,” Burke rasps. He sounds like the living dead. “Told you he wouldn’t help.”

“I’m not refusing,” John snaps. “I’m simply pointing out that this is an awful idea. Anyway, you won’t be able to get inside without my key.”

“Your key?” Rook asks, softly. He draws something out of his pocket, holds it up to the light. A silver key, dangling from an expensive leather cord. John’s key.

John’s hands immediately go to his throat, clawing at the empty space. How did Rook get that? When did he—?

“You were pretty out of it when I found you,” Rook says, as though he can hear John’s whirlwind thoughts.

“Didn’t even notice, did you?” Burke adds, a nasty grin on his face.

John grinds his teeth, biting back a hysterical demand to give it back. He hadn’t even realised it was gone— how stupid, how pathetic! No wonder Joseph had deemed him unworthy! If Joseph realises that John’s lost his key, anger won’t even begin to cover it. Joseph is usually a very calm man, but John’s seen his rage, and never ever wants it directed toward him.

“I need that back,” John says, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Joseph will be upset if I lose it.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Rook replies, casually stringing John’s key around his own neck.

John clenches his fists. He’ll get that key back, and he’ll choke the life out of Rook as he does so. He’ll relish the way Rook’s hands frantically scrabble against the cord, against John’s skin. And then finally, finally, Rook’s eyes will go glassy, his muscles relaxing as the life leaves his body.

“I heard about what you did to the Armoury,” John says. If Rook won’t return the key, then John can just get it later from his corpse. The most important thing right now is to make sure that John’s Gate is still standing strong, that it will still house the faithful during the Collapse. God help John if he has to spend seven years in Faith’s Gate instead. Those Angels give him nightmares.

“Jacob’s bunker was a terrible place and I destroyed it,” Rook replies, evenly.

“Please don’t destroy my Gate. The Collapse is coming, and I— _we_ need it to survive,” John says. And then, to sweeten the pot, to lull Rook into a false sense of superiority, he averts his eyes, looks at the floor as though he’s submitting: “Go ahead. Free the sinners. Free your friend. But whatever you do, leave the Gate standing. _Please_.”

Pratt scoffs. There’s a long, quiet moment. John hears the faint rustle of clothing, but he doesn’t look up. They must be gesturing to each other, trying to decide what to do. There’s a soft whisper from Whitehorse: something that might have been “do it”.

“Fine,” Rook says, after what feels like hours. “I guess we have a deal.”

John suppresses the urge to smile as he looks back up. They need to think that he’s more helpless than he actually is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you’re like me and like being able to mentally build a timeline in fics, John’s only waited for about three days for Burke and Rook to get un-Blissed (he’s just incredibly melodramatic, even while alone). So it’s been about five days since John’s excommunication began. 
> 
> If you're interested, I have a writing blog on tumblr under the same name as here, peltonea. That's a side blog though, so any follow-backs will be done via my personal blog amistrio.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, posting chapter one: welp, i guess this is probably going to be eight or so chapters long, better get writing! *cracks knuckles*
> 
> me now: uhhhh... this might be the half way point? or possibly the 45% point?? i swear to god this story was not this long in my head... *sweats nervously*

Next come questions. Lots of them. An interrogation of sorts. Rook is thorough, asking about every conceivable facet of the Gate that might affect his stupid little rescue mission.

John answers every question honestly: the guards change three times a day, and there are far more now that Jacob is gone. His Chosen flocked to the remaining Gates, though there are still some left in the Whitetails. He describes their patrol patterns and the number of reinforcements available, as well as detailing their weaponry and their strengths and weaknesses. (There aren’t many of the latter: Jacob did his job thoroughly.)

John’s asked to draw a rudimentary map of the Gate, which he does (with no small amount of difficulty, thanks to the cuffs and the lack of proper tools: he needs a mechanical pencil and a ruler and protractor and a large board, but what he actually gets is a tacky ballpoint pen and a couple small sheets of thin, cheap printer paper). He helpfully circles the rooms Hudson and the sinners are kept in, as well as other areas of interest, such as John’s office and the control rooms. He gives approximate numbers of Gate residents, maps out the route least likely to draw attention between the entrance and the sinners. He gives Rook an approximate schedule that the Gate keeps to: particularly the designated prayer and meal times.

“We’ll hit them tonight,” Rook decides, eventually. “Guard change is at five, so we’ll go in at six. Most people will be at dinner, and after that they’ve got prayers. We’ll have a distraction up top so Pratt and I can sneak in, and then we’ll cause as much chaos as we can on the way out. Nick and Addie can provide air support for the escape, Jerome and Mary May providing our escape on the ground. Probably best to get Hurk and Sharky to do the distracting, ‘cause they’re the best at it.”

As long as John doesn’t have to talk to any of those awful people again, he doesn’t really care. And if he’s lucky— really, really lucky— maybe one of the Chosen will land a good hit and one of the support specialists will die. (John really hopes it’s Nick Rye, the bastard, but any member of the Drubman clan will do just as nicely. He hates the three of them in equal measure.)

“John, you’ll be here with Whitehorse and Burke. They’re running mission control,” Rook says. “Don’t be a dick.”

John opens his mouth to reply, a clever pun about his dick at the tip of his tongue, but Deputy Rook is already gone. Presumably to start preparing for his assault on the faithful. Burke glares at John with dark-circled eyes as the door swings shut with a heavy thud.

“You’re being awful helpful,” Burke croaks. “Too helpful.”

“I happen to enjoy my continued existence,” John replies. “Well, obviously I’m not enjoying that very much right now, but I digress.”

Burke doesn’t blink. He leans forward, slowly.

“You better get used to this, ‘cause I’m going to see you thrown in jail for the rest of your fucking life,” he hisses.

“No, you won’t,” John replies, easily. He chuckles. Even if the Collapse doesn’t come early enough to prevent that, John’s an excellent lawyer— the finest in Montana for sure, and he’d wager most of the rest of the country, too. He’s pretty sure he could get this case thrown out based just on Burke’s bullshit alone, never mind the fact that he’s functionally under arrest but has yet to be informed of that or read his rights.

Burke snarls, rises to his feet, leaning heavily on the chair and the IV drip. And then Whitehorse is between them, ever the peace-keeper.

“Now ain’t the time for fighting,” he says. He glances back at John, takes in his greasy hair and his untrimmed beard and his dirty clothes. “Pratt, go take our guest to the showers. Burke, you need to calm down.”

Pratt moves swiftly and silently, roughly taking John by the shoulder, walking at a much faster pace than Whitehorse’s usual slow meandering. John looks back, to where Whitehorse is right in Burke’s face, presumably reminding him of whatever shit-for-brains plan the Sheriff’s Department has come up with for dealing with John. Burke’s scowling as Whitehorse speaks, and his gaze meets John’s for a split second.

“Don’t drop the soap!” Burke yells, interrupting whatever Whitehorse is saying. And then a pathetically childish attempt at getting under John’s skin: “Then again, I heard you were into that!”

John merely grins and winks back at him as Pratt shoves him around a corner, then through another set of doors that lead deeper into the building. It’d take much more than a reference to his bisexuality to rankle John. And now that he knows that Burke thinks that was an actual insult, he can use it to his advantage: there’s nothing quite as effective in getting a rise out of straight men than flirting with them.

John is still grinning when Pratt uncuffs him and hands him a patchy washcloth and a bottle of something lemon-scented that resembles dish soap more than anything else. The label reads ‘two-in-one shampoo and body wash’, so that’s going to destroy his hair more than it actually cleans it. Still, it’s better than trying to use those waxy little soap bars. He’s given a threadbare towel, and a bundle of clean clothes, and Pratt holds the door to the showers open for him to go through before following him.

The showers are at least individual, with dividing walls and cheap plastic curtains. They all look terrible, barely clean, a few empty wrappers and bottles littering the corners, and John just _knows_ that the water pressure is going to be terrible. The cubicles take up one wall with sinks and mirrors taking up the other.

John chooses the third cubicle he walks past, because it’s almost completely clean and he’s probably not going to find anything better. He slips his boots off before he enters: those shoes are genuine Italian leather and he is not going to let anything destroy them before he gets access to his own wardrobe again. God, he misses his Versace sweatpants and his perfectly-tailored, custom-made suits.

Soon, he tells himself. He’ll offer his home— or, specifically, the goodies he has stashed in the very small bunker underneath his home since they already took that— to Rook once they’re closer to seeing Joseph. And if everything goes well, by the time the week is out John’ll be sleeping in his own comfortable bed again, in his own clothes, surrounded by his creature comforts, his brother no longer distant.

John closes the curtain and strips quickly, tossing the dirty clothes into one corner, near the curtain. He can see Deputy Pratt’s boots under the curtain as he does do.He’s standing a couple metres away, near the sinks. So no real privacy, yet again. John had been half-tempted to spend part of his shower time jerking off to the thought of sucking Burke off, partly because John needs to do something to relieve the horrible anxious tension that’s been building in every muscle since his last conversation with Joseph, but mostly because Burke would absolutely hate being part of John’s private fantasies. Exhibitionism isn’t John’s thing, though. Maybe later.

John starts the water, and he was right— the water pressure here really is terrible. But hot water is hot water, and he’ll take whatever he can get at this point. Just as John predicted, the lemony soap leaves his hair feeling like straw, stripping the moisture from his skin. And there’s no conditioner or beard oil or moisturiser here, so there’s not much that he can do about it, either. He’s never missed his grooming products so much: Jacob had choked the first time he saw John’s bathroom, and never stopped needling him about the fact he owned so many expensive face masks and creams and serums and gels.

God. He _really_ misses Jacob’s bullshit.

John lets the water run for a few minutes longer, and then towels himself off, re-dressing in ill-fitting, baggy cargo pants, a dark grey hoodie, and a bright green t-shirt. He grimaces at the shirt when he sees it. Green is absolutely not his colour. Always washes him out, makes him look sickly. He doesn't have a choice, though. The jail is cold, and he need the layers.

When John emerges, Pratt is still standing straight, his expression blank, wrists crossed at the belt, just like Jacob always used to. His eyes track John’s movements, but he doesn’t move at all.

John pulls on his boots again, examines his face in the mirror. His nose is looking a lot better, slightly crooked, but no longer swollen. The bruises have faded, too, faint purple-green-yellow under his eyes. His beard is too long, just starting to get messy in a way John doesn’t like.

“Can I have scissors?” he asks. “Or a razor?”

“No,” Pratt replies, still facing ahead at the cubicles behind John.

“I just want to cut my beard a little,” John says. He frowns into his reflection, pulling at the offending hair. “Look, it’s too long now. And it’s all messy.”

Pratt turns his head slightly and looks at John, and it’s not a particularly pleasant look either. His brown eyes are narrowed, his mouth a hard line. His head is tilted back slightly, so he’s looking down his nose at John.

“You know, I used to tidy Jacob’s beard for him.”

Pratt’s voice isn’t as light or casual as it used to be, in the few conversations they’d had before the Reaping. Deputy Pratt had been a complete dick, in an overgrown frat boy kind of way. He’d always had a relaxed slouch to his posture, an irritating smirk on his lips. Now, he’s almost a different person, still a dick, but in the complete opposite way. Straight-backed, a cold monotone to his voice, even colder eyes.

“I’ll admit, I have a hard time imagining that,” John says, after a long pause makes it apparent that Pratt wants him to say something in reply. “Jacob was always a very cautious man.”

Pratt smiles wide, baring all his teeth. The smile does not reach his eyes.

“Jacob told me that you were weak,” he says. “That you were nothing but a spoiled, prissy little princeling.”

John grits his teeth, more than a little hurt at Pratt’s words.

Okay, yes, Jacob always made fun of John’s vanity and his distaste for the outdoors. But he wouldn’t have gone ranting about it to some random Deputy. No, teasing John was Jacob’s private pastime, and Jacob’s alone. Faith was a fake sister, despite all of Joseph’s fancy words otherwise, she didn’t have that right and they’d all understood that. And Joseph had the right, but would never have done so, always taking himself and his duties so very seriously. And so Jacob had joked and poked fun enough for two extra siblings, and it had always been in a loving, amicable way. “Better set your alarm for four,” he’d say, a smile on his lips, about a meeting at John’s own ranch at ten AM. “Hope you’re not late— I know you need your beauty sleep.”

For Pratt to start putting words in Jacob’s mouth, especially now that his eldest brother can’t defend himself, that’s not _fair_. It’s not fair of him to go poking at the raw wound of Jacob’s death like that.

“Those are bold words, coming from a ginger werewolf,” John mutters, recounting his favourite come-back to Jacob’s teasing remarks. He wouldn't have said those things to Pratt. He wouldn't.

“He was right,” Pratt says, ignoring John's words. “Jacob was right about a lot of things. You’re weak. And when Rook is done with all this shit, I’m going to be the one to cull you.”

“Good luck with that,” John replies, cold rage clawing at his belly. “I hear there’s going to be a queue.”

Pratt doesn’t respond, merely takes John’s wrists in a cold iron grip, and re-cuffs him. Then he turns and walks back to the doors, and John doesn’t bother to pick up his bundle of dirty clothes or his towel on his way out. Pratt holds the door open once again, and when they re-enter the strategy centre, Burke and Whitehorse are gone, and so is everybody else who'd been milling around there.

Deputy Pratt leads John back up the stairs to his cell. Once he’s locked the door behind John, John sticks his hands through the gap, waiting to be uncuffed.

Pratt looks at John’s hands, then at John’s face, and then he scoffs.

“I don’t think so,” he says. And then he’s gone.

"Come on!" John yells, through the bars, as Pratt vanishes from sight. "This isn't fair!"

Pratt doesn't respond, and after a moment, there's a heavy thudding noise, as Pratt presumably leaves the main room too. John screams in frustration, but Pratt still doesn't return.

Honestly, John seethes, throwing himself back on his bunk. Why are all of Deputy Rook’s friends so _awful_?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to jump right into rescuing the beautiful and perfect and kickass Deputy Hudson, but then Pratt showed up and just. like. refused to leave without pissing John off something awful.

John glares at his watch, as the seconds tick slowly onward, sliding into long minutes and even longer hours. Waiting, and waiting, and waiting some more. That’s the worst part of being stuck here. The boredom. The lack of stimulation makes him sluggish, liable to slip into sleep for no reason whatsoever.

Although the Bible and the Book of Joseph help, there's only so many times John can read through them. He’s not like Joseph. He's not as faithful, as good-hearted, as holy as the Father. He can’t spend his time endlessly praying and reading his scriptures. Doing those things can only pass so many minutes before his attention starts to wander.

There are people in the strategy centre again, murmuring amongst themselves. John can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but he doesn’t really want to. It’s always the same stuff. Fuck the Seed family (unfortunately not literally, John would be having much more fun), fuck the Bliss (something about crazed half-Judge animals causing havoc), did you hear about the (insert minor problem here) at the (insert backwoods location here)— maybe we could ask Deputy Rook to look into it (as though he doesn’t have enough to do, what with systematically destroying John's family and livelihood).

“Hey,” Deputy Pratt says, having appeared with a covered metal bowl and a spoon in his hands. “I’m heading out with Rook now, but I thought I’d better make sure you’re fed before I go. Can’t run mission control on an empty stomach.”

Pratt’s words are kind, casual, almost friendly, but they’re spoken in that disconcerting monotone, Pratt’s face still coldly blank.

John gets up off the bunk and takes the bowl with both hands. It’s just small enough to pass through the opening in the door, and it’s cool to the touch, though satisfyingly heavy. John had been feeling pretty hungry. This is... surprisingly nice of Pratt.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Let me take those cuffs off you,” Pratt says. So John puts the bowl and spoon on his little crate-table, and holds out his arms to be un-cuffed. Pratt nods at John, a smile playing at his lips, as he returns the cuffs to his belt. John picks up the bowl and uncovers it, eager to eat. He pauses, spoon half-way to the contents of the bowl.

It takes a second to process what he’s seeing. Brown, jellied chunks, coated in a greyish, unappetising sludge. The smell is very distinctive, one that's permeated the air of the Veteran’s Centre ever since Jacob set up shop there.

It’s dog food. Cheap, nasty, canned dog food.

“Is this a joke?” he demands, looking up at Pratt. He’s just standing there, wrists crossed over his belt.

“Nope,” Pratt replies. He cocks his head to one side, face blank again, like— like John is something to be observed, instead of a person.

“I’m not eating this,” John says, mouth curling in disgust and anger. How dare he? How _dare_ he?

“Guess you’ll be going hungry then,” Pratt says.

“Fine,” John snaps. He slams the offending bowl down, setting the lid back in place with more force than necessary.

“You know, in about eight days, that’s gonna look real appetising,” Pratt says. He produces a tiny pocket knife, starts picking at his fingernails. “Then you’re gonna thank me.”

“I’m not going to be here in eight days,” John replies. He presses himself close to the metal bars, gripping them tightly as he glares at Pratt, hoping that he’ll somehow drop dead on the spot. He doesn’t. 

“You keep telling yourself that,” Pratt says. He looks John dead in the eye and sighs, like he’s the one who’s being offended here. “I’m just looking out for you, Johnny.”

“Don’t call me that!” John snarls. That’s a nickname reserved for Jacob and Joseph alone, and Pratt is neither of them, the cocky, arrogant, evil little _bastard_ that he is.

There’s a distant shout, and then the door to the main room opens with a click.

“—ly, Pratt, where the hell are you? We have to leave!” Deputy Rook’s voice rings out. He sounds tired.

“Oh,” Pratt raises his eyebrows. “That’s my cue. See you later, Johnny.”

John sees red. He reaches through the bars, too late to grip Pratt’s shoulder as he walks away, spitting curses and insults and every awful name he can think of at Deputy Pratt as he leaves. Pratt doesn’t respond, though John hears him laugh low and cruel before the main door swings closed again and John is left with nothing but impotent silence in the air and unspent rage simmering in his blood.

He screams in fury, and when that doesn’t make him feel any better, he picks up the bowl of dog food and tosses it through the gap Pratt passed it through. It doesn’t go very far, but it hits the metal walkway with an almost satisfying clunk, splattering the dog food everywhere.

If this were John’s ranch, or any of his family’s sanctuaries, a handful of believers would have appeared by now, eager to help their herald quell his righteous anger. From the moment John raised his voice, Pratt would have been doomed. He’d have been dragged, kicking and screaming, to a place of correction, somewhere John could show him the error of his ways. And when this is over, that’s exactly what John is going to do.

Deputy Pratt will not kill John. John will kill Deputy Pratt.

When Rook is finally with the Father, when Joseph’s wrath is satisfied, when John has been forgiven, that’s when he’ll strike. He’ll choke Pratt, just enough to strike fear into his heart, and then he’ll cut him the rest of the way. Or maybe he’ll leave Pratt chained in a dark, empty room for days on end, finally granting him release when he’s half dead from starvation and dehydration, when he’s covered in his own piss and shit and God knows what else. Maybe he’ll beat Pratt until he can’t stand under his own power, finally crushing his throat under his finest pair of boots. Oh, the possibilities are endless. Completely and utterly endless.

It’s at least an hour before Whitehorse appears, frowning at the bowl and the mess on the walkway.

“Is it time already?” John asks. He’s been curled on his bunk for a good twenty minutes, trying to force himself to calm down, to relax. He’s had mixed results. He can feel that his neck and shoulders are still tense, but at least he’s no longer restless in his rage.

Joseph always said that John’s temper was awful, that he’d drive people away from him, and that’s something he can’t afford to do right now. No, he needs to keep all these pathetic sinners on his side, or as close to that as he can get. There’s no way he can make them _like_ him, but maybe he can nudge them toward ‘not hate’. So staying calm, despite all the trials that are being thrown his way, is important. And hard. It’s _so_ hard. Especially with stupid, arrogant, foul-hearted nobodies like Deputy Pratt trying to drive him mad.

“More or less,” Whitehorse replies. “You’ll have to clean up that mess when we’re done.”

“Pratt should do it,” John argues. “He tried to feed me dog food!”

“Is that so?” Whitehorse looks surprised, like he didn’t know. “Did he throw it on the floor?”

“No,” John says, after a moment. It’s tempting to blame that on Pratt, but Whitehorse is the kind of man to appreciate honesty. “That was me.”

“Then you’re cleaning it,” Whitehorse says, matter-of-factly. “No arguments. Your parents never teach you that? You make a mess, you clean it up?”

John’s parents taught him a lot of things. That he was worthless, that he deserved every beating and every ounce of suffering laid upon his soul, that there was some hidden evil lurking deep within his heart, that even his own flesh and blood had hated him. But despite all their twisted lectures and their cruelty, they actually hadn’t taught him _that_. There had always been maids and housekeepers to clean and cook and do all the things that were beneath John, and after that there were the faithful, desperate to keep their saviours happy in whatever small ways they could.

John doesn’t answer Whitehorse out loud, just forces himself to get up, presenting his hands for re-cuffing. Whitehorse obliges, then leads him down into the strategy centre. The table with the maps has been pushed closer to the table with the radio equipment. Burke is already sitting there, clutching his IV drip like his life depends on it. He glares at John as he approaches. John ignores him and sits in the chair Whitehorse points to, a crappy fold-out one right between the maps and the radio.

“Once we’ve done this, and you’ve cleaned that mess up, I’ll see about getting you something decent to eat,” Whitehorse says, as though _anything_ they’ve eaten the past few days has been decent. “And I’ll talk to Pratt. That ain’t gonna happen again.”

It had better not, John thinks, as he re-arranges the maps he drew earlier into a more logical format: the entrance levels at the top, the lower levels at the bottom. There are a handful of tokens on the table, clearly stolen from a sub-standard chess set. John picks up a castle piece and a pawn, both cast in cheap white plastic: a rook, for Deputy Rook, and a nameless, warped piece of shit for Deputy Pratt. He places them carefully outside the Gate entrance.

“If you screw this up,” Marshall Burke says, leaning forward and baring his teeth in something that’s definitely not a smile, “I’m going to kill you.”

“But if you kill me, how will you ever reunite with my dear sister?” John asks, mockingly, and for a full ten seconds Burke looks like he’s going to reach across the table and throttle the life out of John. Thankfully, he doesn’t.

“For the record,” Whitehorse says, clearly unimpressed, “this is exactly what Rookie meant when he said ‘don’t be a dick’.”

John shrugs.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the bunker layout in ND is significantly different than it was in FC5. Or maybe I’m just really bad at visualising space. Either way, this chapter is a mixture of making shit up and consulting a video walkthrough of those missions.

It doesn’t take long before Deputy Rook’s voice comes over the radio, tinny and crackly over the ancient speakers.

“Rook and Pratt now approaching the checkpoint, over.”

“Whitehorse acknowledging, over.”

John taps his fingers impatiently on the table.

“Tell him not to kill anybody,” he hisses. Whitehorse sighs, and dutifully presses the broadcast button, leaning over the mic.

“Our guest has asked that you take non-lethal measures against any Peggies you encounter,” he says, enunciating clearly. “Over.”

“We’ll consider it, over,” Pratt replies, a moment later.

John grits his teeth. He should have forced Rook to agree to that earlier. There’s not much point in keeping the Gate in one piece if there’s no faithful left to actually occupy it. Joseph, of course, will stay there, and so will those left at his compound. They might be joined by what little of Jacob’s forces that are left in the Whitetails, unless they decide to take the Wolf’s Den bunker instead of trekking all the way to Holland Valley. But that wouldn't even be half the bunker's capacity.

A few long minutes pass, before Deputy Rook checks in again.

“We've just reached the silo,” he says. “I’m counting eight Peggies and at least two Angels guarding outside. Sharky, Hurk, you ready? Over.”

“Oh, hell yeah!” Boshaw yells, his voice buzzing into static. “Disco inferno two: electric boogaloo! Uh, over.”

There’s very little on that frequency for another minute, and Whitehorse turns a dial. The Chosen’s radio correspondence slowly becomes audible, until it’s a couple notches quieter than the Resistance channel. It’s a good idea, gives Whitehorse and Burke a better idea of what Eden’s Gate are doing. John wonders if the remaining Chosen are still monitoring the airwaves. They were doing that from the old Radar Station, and from Jacob’s Armoury, but both of those places have been either taken over by the Resistance or completely destroyed. They probably aren’t, John decides, otherwise Rook and Pratt would already have been captured.

“Sinners spotted! They’re setting off fireworks at the parking lot entrance!” one Chosen barks. “Delta squad, send them back to hell! Over!”

“Ow! They’re shootin’ at us!” Drubman Jr squeals. “That ain’t very ‘love thy neighbour’! Argh! They got me in my humungous weiner! Hurry, Dep!”

“Entering the bunker now, over,” Rook says, and there’s the unmistakable clanking sound of the main bulkhead opening in the background. John moves his tokens to the entrance staircase, and waits.

“Ooh, it’s gettin’ hot in here—“ Boshaw sings. “So take off all your— oh _shit_!”

“Not on the radio, boys,” Whitehouse says, patiently as ever. “Over.”

“Sorry, my man, just wanted to share with you what was happenin’, seein’ as you ain’t physically here with us,” Drubman Jr says, breathlessly, barely audible over the sound of gunfire. “No disrespect or anythin’ intended, we was just havin’ a little bit o' fun.”

“That’s understandable, but we need this radio channel clear so that Mr Seed can give directions and we can give everybody their signals on time, over,” Whitehouse explains, and the worn look on his face tells John that this is not the first time he’s explained this to the Drubmans. 

“Hey, do we have to keep sayin’ ‘over’ when we’re sayin’ shit?” Boshaw asks. There’s a blast of static, presumably an explosion of some kind.

“That would be best, over,” Whitehorse says, and then Burke takes the radio mic from him.

“Seriously, shut up so we can do our jobs,” he snaps. “Over.”

“You don’t gotta be so mean about it,” Boshaw mutters. “Over, I guess.”

The Drubmans keep their useless chatter to a minimum after that.

“We’re at the bottom of the stairs,” Rook says. “Five Peggies were here, but we knocked them out, over.”

“Great,” John reaches for the mic, which Burke reluctantly releases. John clears his throat, and starts broadcasting. “Go down the stairs, then to the right. Over.”

“Roger,” Pratt replies. "You were supposed to identify yourself, by the way."

John ignores him and guides the two into the main hall of Silo B. His office is pretty close to the entrance, right next to one of the Chosen barracks. It’s also not far from his own assigned bunk room (which is of course comparatively private: he’ll only have to share with Joseph, not twenty other people). Hudson is actually being kept in Silo C, but Rook and Pratt don’t need to know that yet. John wants his coat back first.

“To your left, you’ll see a white door. That’s my office. There are some keycards in there that’ll make your mission so much easier. Over.”

“Roger,” Pratt replies, again. John wonders if there’s any chance of splitting Rook and Pratt up— if so, he could try to lead Pratt into a dead-end, to be killed or maimed, and he’d probably be able to pass it off as a genuine mistake. He glances at Burke, whose eyes are fixed angrily on John. He’s just waiting for John to screw up somehow, just _waiting_ for him to deserve something, some kind of a beating or torture, or maybe even a bullet in the head.

…No, maybe John wouldn’t be able to pass it off as a mistake after all. Maybe targeting Deputy Pratt can wait until some other time.

“Got the keycards,” Rook says. “There were four. Over.”

“One for each silo,” John replies. “There are sinners housed in each silo, but I can’t remember precisely where we were keeping Hudson.”

“Bullshit,” Burke snarls. John ignores him, continuing his message. 

“The control room to Silo B is just down the hall from you, and you’ll be able to free the prisoners in this section by swiping the corresponding keycard at the computer and selecting the ‘unlock all’ option. Repeat that for all of the silos, and you’ll be able to free Hudson in no time. Oh, and one last thing…”

“What is it?” Rook groans. “Over.”

“Is my coat still hanging in the office? You know, the nice one with the planes…"

Burke scoffs, that sour look not leaving his face. Whitehorse closes his eyes for a moment, taps his fingers impatiently on his crossed arms.

“You’re supposed to say ‘over’,” Pratt says, monotonal as always. “And yes, it is. Over.”

“I want it back,” John says, and before he can say anything else, Burke’s snatched the mic from his hands.

“No,” Burke says. “Do _not_ get this asshole his coat back. Don’t even think about it. Get Hudson and get the hell out of there.”

“Really? It’s very cold in this prison. I think I’m getting pneumonia. Honestly, I’m a terrible patient— it’s really for your benefit that I’m asking for it back,” John protests. “I’m not even asking for very much. It’s _right there_ in front of them."

Whitehorse takes the mic from Burke, his vast reserves of patience clearly sapped.

“Do whatever you think is right, Rook,” Whitehorse says. “I trust you. Over.”

Someone— presumably Rook— sighs, a loud buzz of static that hurts John’s ears.

“Okay, you’ll get your coat,” Rook says. “Where exactly is the control room? Over.”

John guides them through the Gate, slowly but surely. Rook and Pratt clear Silos B and A with little trouble, the two of them surprisingly quick and competent. The Drubman cousins only interrupt once, when Boshaw announces that he’s put on his fursuit and the Chosen radio is full of confused chatter about a small, flame-wielding yeti.

Jerome Jeffries announces that he’s reached the bunker in his van, and old Ms Drubman cheerfully announces that she can’t find her underwear, but she’s on her way to the Gate regardless. Rook and Pratt start moving back toward the entrance, where Silos C and D are located, bringing the sinners with them. Once the first load of sinners have been passed on to Jeffries, Rook and Pratt continue on their stealthy adventure, until John hears the words he’s been waiting for:

“We’re in the Silo C control room, freeing the prisoners now. Over.”

“Oh,” John says. Time to lead them to the prize they’ve been looking for. “You know, something _just_ occurred to me. You see that doorway leading to a staircase? Over.”

“I’m not getting any more gifts for you,” Rook replies, impatiently. “You’re lucky you’re getting your ugly coat back. Over.”

John ignores that. Obviously Rook has no taste. That coat was custom-made and cost more than eight thousand dollars. It’s fantastic. It keeps John warm in this mountainous wasteland, and it looks great on him.

“No— the stairs lead to my art studio,” John explains, before Rook can leave the control room. “Now, you said you didn’t see Hudson on the way here, right? Over.”

“You think she’s down there? Wait, you have an _art studio_ in your _nuclear bunker_?”

“I have a studio and a gallery in my _Gate_ because the faithful will be all that’s left of humanity after the Collapse, and I am many things, including an artist. I want my work to survive the inevitable defeat of mankind at the hands of God,” John explains, interrupting Rook before he can continue. “And yes. Your friend _might_ have been shoved in there and forgotten about, without me to oversee the proper running of the Gate. Over.”

Rook sighs again.

“You seriously keep prisoners in your art studio? What is _wrong_ with you?” he mutters. “Just— argh. All right. We’ll take a look. Over.”

“I don’t keep anybody in the studio,” John says, and for the most part it’s true. Deputy Hudson is a special case. John had seen, from the moment Joseph first gifted her to him, that she needed careful attention. She needed a lot of cleansing, so much more than a normal soul. Although John has yet to successfully finish Confessing her, Hudson is much less volatile now. She’s been humbled somewhat, though there are still deep abscesses of pride and wrath and sloth in her soul. John just needs a little more time to finish the job— time he no longer has, thanks to Grant and the other traitorous Chosen.

There’s quiet for a moment, and then Pratt starts talking.

“What’s with these serial killer slogans painted on all the walls? Over.”

John blinks. There aren’t any serial killer slogans painted on the walls. There are posters, mostly of John and Joseph, and lots of words of encouragement, but no serial killer slogans.

“I’ve been wondering that, too,” Rook adds. “Right here, you’ve got the seven deadly sins painted all over the wall, and it looks like a murderous five year old did it. And you had all kinds of creepy shit painted on the stairs. ‘You will thank us’ and stuff. Over.”

“That’s not _creepy_ ,” John says, in disbelief. Really, how could they think that? “That’s _encouraging_. It’s for the believers, to keep their spirits up. To remind them to have faith.”

“Please, it’s the creepiest thing I have ever seen with my own two— oh Jesus…” Deputy Rook trails off. “No, I stand corrected, _that’s_ the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen with my own two eyes.”

“What is it? Over.”

There’s a moment of silence before Deputy Rook starts talking again, his voice wavering just a little.

“John, why is there a dead body hanging upside-down in your art studio? Over.”

“Which one, specifically, are you talking about?” John asks. There are quite a few corpses in his studio, many of which are hanging upside-down. Most of them have been carefully wrapped up, to be taken to the incinerator at a later point, or maybe to be used in a new piece.

“Which—? Oh, shit, are those—? Urgh,” Rook takes a deep breath, gasping though the static. “John. You’re _sick_. You’re really, _really_ sick. Seriously, what is _wrong_ with you?”

“Are you talking about the one with the flowers? I thought that one turned out really well.”

“You stuck _antlers_ in his _crotch_. Please tell me he was dead when you did that,” Rook says, his voice cracking just a little. He really doesn’t appreciate art at all, does he?

“Yes, he was,” John rolls his eyes. Honestly, Rook has no business getting all squeamish like that, considering how many innocent people he’s slaughtered on this righteous little murder spree of his. It’s not like John killed any of those people he’s been making art out of. All those corpses are from people who were too weak to survive their Confession, or who were killed by John’s men.

Burke’s still looking at John, thogh now his expression is wide-eyed disgust rather than anger. Whitehorse is staring too, but it’s harder to read him. He keeps his emotions hidden under a calm, fatherly façade. Honestly, they’re both annoying, and the faster John can get out of here, the better.

“Moving on,” Pratt says, unfazed by whatever’s gotten Rook so riled up. “There are two Peggie bodies in the next—“

There’s static, and lots of loud noises, something that sounds like a scream. It goes on for a solid minute, just long enough for John to worry that maybe something killed Rook. He’ll never be redeemed if that bastard dies.

“We found Hudson,” Pratt says, breathing heavily. “Over.”

John picks up a queen, adds that to the map. He hesitates.

“Um— they’re not coming back here, are they?” he asks. Hudson isn’t fully clean. She doesn’t yet understand that John hasn’t Confessed her out of some perverse delight in her suffering— rather, out of love for his fellow human beings. He's tried to explain, but she's not pure enough to listen to him yet. She’ll hurt him, out of her wrath and her lack of spiritual enlightenment.

Whitehorse looks at John for a long moment.

“No, they’re not,” he says. “Rook’s coming back to the Henbane, but Hudson and Pratt are going to stay in Fall’s End a while longer.”

“Good,” John replies, hardly able to contain a sigh of relief.

“Oh? You scared?” Burke murmurs, in the cruel, sing-song way of someone who thinks they have a lot more power than they actually do. John ignores him.

“Okay, heading upstairs now. Just Silo D left to go, right? Over,” Rook says.

“Yes, that’s right,” John replies. “Go back up to the main hall. As soon as you leave the control room, go right and through the door at the end of the hall. That will take you down to Silo D. Over.”

There’s an industrial elevator there that could take them, and all the sinners, back to the surface easily. But John’s going to keep that one a secret. It takes a long time to get working, and when it does, it’s really loud. It’s not worth the trouble.

“I’m at the lot,” Mary May’s voice comes over the radio. “Waiting for package delivery.”

“Roger,” Whitehorse replies.

A few minutes later, during which Nick Rye announces that he’s on his way to provide air support, Rook starts broadcasting again. It’s disconcerting that the Chosen aren't using their radio channel any more. Boshaw and Drubman Jr probably killed them all, then. Which is impressive, given how incompetent those two seem, and also annoying: John is running out of good men very quickly.

“All prisoners accounted for. Now heading up. Over.”

“Roger.”

Unfortunately, the sinners run into no problems on the way back to the surface, and the few guards inside the bunker haven’t regained consciousness yet. The alarm probably won’t be raised for another fifteen minutes or so, when the Gate civilians start heading to their dormitories or the chapel for their evening prayers, only to find their protectors knocked out cold on the floor.

John sighs. Such a loss. He'd really wanted at least some of those people to survive the Collapse, safe in his Gate.

At least there’s still time for one of the Drubman cousins to set themselves on fire. John hopes it's Boshaw.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could spend a couple hours finishing my college work and updating my CV like I'm supposed to be doing right now, or… I could ignore all my responsibilities and do this instead…

Once they receive confirmation that both Pastor Jeffries and Mary May’s trucks have reached Fall’s End, loaded with sinners, and that the Deputies have safely arrived there too, Whitehorse flicks off the radio and stands up.

“With me,” he says to John, and, true to his word, he forces John to clean the splattered dog food off the walkway. Sheriff Whitehorse is nice enough to provide a mop and bucket, paper towels and a small plastic bag to put the waste and bowl in. He even uncuffs John before vanishing to do God-knows-what. Burke lingers nearby, keeping watch over John with a shiny-looking Taser hooked on his belt. He's sitting in a chair against the wall, eager to shit on everything John does. Oh, and he does.

“Have you ever mopped before?” Burke asks, the glint in his eyes a sure sign that he knows the answer is ‘no’. He doesn’t offer to help, just continues sneering.

John doesn’t answer him, just continues mopping, pushing soapy water around on the concrete. There are some bits of jelly and streaks of sludge still stuck on the floor. Annoyingly, they’re not dissolving like John had expected. It's frustrating. 

“You need to squeeze the water out, get the mop nice and dry,” Whitehorse says, reappearing with a covered tray in his hands. “That stuff won’t dissolve in cold water, even with all the detergent I put in there. Good old-fashioned elbow grease oughta do it.”

Whitehorse steps around the pine-scented puddle and puts the tray in John’s cell. John grinds his teeth and wrings out the mop. Cleaning is harder than he’d thought it would be. His shoulders are starting to ache, from the weird angle he’s having to hold the mop at. In the future, he won’t be quite so quick to scold his followers for doing a shoddy job of polishing his hardwood floors or cleaning his windows. Maybe he'll even be nice, offer them some coffee after their work. 

“Have you ever worked a day in your life?” Burke asks. John opens his mouth, ready to remind Burke of his impressive legal career, but Burke just keeps talking, doesn’t let him get a word in. “I mean, a _real_ job. Manual labour. You haven’t, have you? It shows.”

John rolls his eyes, and scrubs a bit more vigorously. Whitehorse was right— the gross remnants are coming off the floor better now there’s less water sloshing around. He dunks the mop back in the bucket and wrings it out again, 'til it's barely damp.

“You always had someone to do all that stuff for you, didn’t you?” Burke asks. “Cleaning and all that. It's obvious, You ever step foot in a kitchen? At all?”

Several times, actually. Whenever John's adoptive parents had beaten him, it had always been in the kitchen. Easier to clean the blood, John presumes. But after that, John had a meal plan in college, and then a housekeeper to do things like cooking and meal prep for him. And when Joseph had moved into John’s nice house in Rome, he’d insisted on personally preparing home-cooked breakfasts and dinners for their reunited family. And after that, of course, he had an eager team of believers.

John has actually only tried to cook once, an ill-fated attempt at mac and cheese that _should_ have been easy but succeeded only in making the Seed family the laughing-stock of the Rye family’s potluck a couple years back. He hasn’t tried again since. Kitchens just… fill him with dread.

John doesn’t _say_ any of that, of course. He just hums, non-committal, and continues his task. He looks up at Whitehorse, waiting by the cell, when he thinks he’s finished.

“Does this meet your standards?” John asks.

“Not really, to be honest,” Whitehorse answers. “But I can tell that you did your best, and that’s good enough. You're done.”

“You think we should put him on the cleaning rota?” Burke asks, a nasty smile stretching over his lips. “He’s not doing much good, locked in that cell. You know what they say, practice makes perfect.”

Whitehorse looks like he’s actually considering it. Ugh. Burke snickers and heads down the stairs, presumably to be a dick to someone else. He leans on the rail heavily, clutching the IV pole close to his chest. John wonders how much Bliss still lingers in Burke’s blood, how deep Faith’s claws have sunk. He leaves the mop in the wringer, heading back to his cell.

“In you go,” Whitehorse says, and of course John obeys. He has no choice.

Once John’s locked inside, Whitehorse lingers for a moment, like he wants to say something. He looks at John, and it’s as though he’s trying to peer into his soul.

John ignores him, examining the food he’s been given instead. It’s all human food this time— thank God— even if it’s still terrible. It’s almost warm, too. Some kind of white fish, with canned vegetables and bland, overcooked beans. There’s a little pot of vanilla pudding on the side. He can’t see any foreign bodies, and he doesn’t think Whitehorse would poison him, so he whispers grace to himself before digging in.

“You coulda really screwed us over back there,” Whitehorse says. “Coulda lead my Deputies right into a trap. But you didn’t.”

Because you’d kill me if I did, John thinks, bitterly, as he chews his first mouthful. The fish is surprisingly okay. A little overcooked, but it tastes fresh, and the skin is crispy.

“Thank you for that,” Whitehorse continues. “I appreciate your co-operation. Now, Rook’s bringing your coat over as we speak. Is there anything else you feel that you need? Can’t be easy, a man like you having so little to do.”

John pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. There are a lot of things he’d _like_ to have here. He’s bored, unbelievably bored, waiting for something, for anything at all to happen. He’d like to have books and movies and music, a bottle of decent liquor, a little privacy and an hour in the company of a pretty girl or a handsome guy (not that there are many of those around here). Most of all, he wants to _not_ be stuck in this cell. But that last one is obviously not something Whitehorse is going to entertain.

“A notebook and some pencils would be nice,” John says, eventually. “Would be nice to draw something.” Maybe he can doodle some new tattoo designs while he’s here. Then when he gets back to his ranch, he can start inking his own skin again. There’s a fair amount of space on his torso that needs filling, but he just hasn’t had the inspiration yet.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Whitehorse says, and then he leaves.

After that, there’s not much else for John to do but wait.

John finishes his meal, saving the pudding for later. He checks the gauze on his ear: the tape is starting to peel away from his skin, so he washes his hands and gently removes it. He probes gingerly at his earlobe, trying to gauge the damage: the flesh isn’t completely split, and the tear in his ear is starting to scab over. He’ll probably still have a huge, ragged hole in his ear when it’s healed, but at least it is healing.

John sits on his bunk, reading through his Book of Joseph, fondly reminiscing the first time he’d met Joseph as an adult, the overwhelming love and kindness Joseph had offered him, that Joseph will once again offer him. John had cried all those years ago, when he’d pulled Joseph into his office at the firm in Georgia. He’d cried like he’d never cried before, all the sorrow and the hurt from the years they’d been apart pouring out through his tear ducts, soaking into Joseph’s second-hand suit, and Joseph had… just held him, stroking through his hair like John was five years old again, terrified of being separated from the only caregiver he’d known.

Soon. John just needs to hang on a little longer. And then everything will be (mostly) all right again.

Caught up in the past as he is, John almost doesn’t notice when Deputy Rook walks up to the bars. When he does notice, he can’t look away.

Deputy Rook, for the very first time since John laid eyes on him, is smiling.

He’s got an infectious grin stretched ear to ear, and although there are still bruise-like circles beneath his eyes, Rook looks alive. Energetic. Completely unlike the exhausted, miserable bastard that’s been leading the Resistance thus far. He’s wearing John’s coat, has his grubby hands shoved deep into the pockets.

John scowls. He’s getting mud and blood and God-knows-what-else on the inner lining. And besides— that’s _John’s_ coat. Deputy Rook is not supposed to be wearing it. It doesn’t fit him well, the shoulders just a little too narrow, the arms a little too short. He’d better not stretch it out. It’s John’s favourite coat for a reason, and he’s _not_ facing the apocalypse without it, thank you very much.

“I see why you like this coat so much,” Rook says, smoothing the lapels with his filthy hands. “It’s very cosy. Very comfortable.”

“Give it here,” John demands. He stretches his arms out through the bars, and Deputy Rook steps back, just out of reach. He laughs, and although it’s irritating and mocking, it doesn’t sound cruel exactly.

“Maybe I’m going to keep it,” Rook says, and John isn’t sure whether he’s joking or not. John tries to stretch his arms further, pressing himself against the bars— damn it, if he just had another inch of height…

“I did what you asked,” John protests. “Come on, you ought to keep your end of the bargain. You have your friends back, don’t you?”

“I do,” Rook nods, looking thoughtful. “But then again, I wouldn’t have had to ask for your help if you hadn’t kidnapped them in the first place.”

“I was trying to save them,” John says. He’s tired of saying that. He’s tired of explaining his work to people who don’t listen and refuse to understand. He’s _tired_.

Rook looks at John, right in the eyes. His smile is gone, his brow a little furrowed.

“You really are, aren’t you?” he asks. “All the messed up shit you’re doing, and you’re actually trying to help people.”

Messed up shit? _Please_. Rook has no room to judge. He’s the violent one. He’s the cruel one. John’s seen the reports, all scattered on his dining table, and then his desk at the Gate. He’s destroying everything, and for what? To satisfy his wrath?

“I could say the same to you,” John replies, fighting to keep his voice even. Rook’s eyes narrow, his arms crossing defensively. That was the wrong thing to say. Shit. John clears his throat, hurriedly starts talking again. “Look, I understand. I’m a lawyer, I know what law enforcement is like. You see something wrong, you’re duty-bound to try to fix it. I get it. But you don’t know the full story here. You don’t understand what we’re trying to do.”

“Which is… save people from the apocalypse?” Rook asks. He looks unimpressed, but he’s still here. He’s still listening. Which means that John’s silver tongue is still as enrapturing as it ever was. Good.

“I know you don’t believe in it. Hell, when Joseph first told me, I didn’t believe in it either,” John says. “But what he says is true. My brother is a prophet. The Collapse is coming. We just want to save as many people as we can.”

“Which is why you’ve been killing or kidnapping every non-Peggie in sight?” Rook asks, too casually. John knows that tone of voice now, too light and too bright. Deputy Rook is angry. He needs to tread carefully, make him understand.

“They wouldn’t listen,” John protests. “So we had to take them by force. If we save their bodies, their souls will surely follow.”

“Uh-huh. And if they don’t survive your little initiation, you turn them into an art piece.” Rook shakes his head. He shrugs off John’s coat, folding it roughly before shoving it through the gap in the door. “Very nice. Very godly of you.”

“I’m showing them respect by turning their mortal forms into something _beautiful_ and _meaningful_ ,” John corrects, taking the coat with both hands before it can fall to the floor.

“You shoved a pair of antlers into some dead guy’s taint and then you glued flowers everywhere. That doesn’t seem respectful to me. What meaning could that possibly have?”

“It’s a commentary on the endless cycle of life and death,” John replies. Deputy Rook scoffs, face twisted into disgust.

“Enjoy your coat,” Deputy Rook says, before John can continue explaining. He walks quickly, like he can’t wait to get away from John. Which is completely unfair. If anything, John should be the one walking away from Rook. Uncultured asshole.

John rolls his eyes, and unfolds his coat, carefully examining it. Surprisingly, it’s still clean— which is good, because there’s no way John is going to be able to get this thing dry-cleaned before the Collapse hits. There are a few specks of dried mud and blood on the inner lining, but that’s easily brushed away. He pulls it on, gripping the too-long sleeves of his hoodie so they don’t bunch up uncomfortably over his arms. He feels better immediately, the familiar weight across his shoulders, the heavy cloth falling to just the right length to both flatter him and keep him warm.

John breathes in, then wrinkles his nose. The coat still kind of smells like engine oil and John’s favourite cologne, but there’s something else overpowering that. A bunch of different somethings, all mixed together into one big something that doesn’t belong here. Cheap soap, dog fur, stale sweat, off-brand deodorant?

Ugh.

John’s favourite coat smells like Deputy Rook now.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally going to involve John finally hearing the full eulogy that Joseph delivered, but then I ended up accidentally writing a Faith/Tracey relationship into the story… which was not the direction I intended to go, but let’s just roll with it. Extra lesbians can’t possibly be a bad thing. 
> 
> This is shorter than normal because I am more sleep deprived than normal. Thank you all so much for the lovely support you’ve shown me. I really do feel grateful <3

Time passes.

John prays for a while. He reads his Bible for a while, this time flicking through Genesis. He sleeps for a while. He’s given breakfast (congealed oatmeal and barely-warm coffee). He paces his cell.

Tracey appears at one point, shoving a small notebook and a battered tin of artist’s pencils through the gap in the door.

“Sheriff asked me to give these to you,” she says, shortly.

“Thanks,” John replies, taking them. The notebook is actually a fairly decent sketchbook, entirely untouched from what John can tell. The pencils are heavily used, at least one missing, a worn sharpener and a battered eraser shoved in the tin as well.

Tracey nods, and gives him one long glance before turning around, ready to leave.

“Hey, is Deputy Rook still around?” John asks, casually, setting the items on his table. He didn’t get around to it earlier, with the way Rook had turned the conversation to John’s unique artistic taste, but John really needs to try to convince Rook that having him at his side is going to be much more convenient than having him locked in a cell.

“He went out,” Tracey replies. She raises her eyebrows, mouth curling into a wicked grin. “Actually, he’s going to that big old statue of your brother.”

“What for?” John asks. Rook isn’t going to walk the Path, is he? John should be there if he’s going to try that. Faith has all her little shrines placed neatly along the pilgrimage. Rook said he wanted to blow them up, so— damn it, that would have been a perfect angle to try to hook him with…

“Just a little bit of demolition,” Tracey shrugs.

Demolition? What on earth is up there to—?

Oh, _no_.

Joseph is going to be very upset if Deputy Rook destroys his statue. Joseph is not a vain man, but that statue represents the culmination of everything he's been working so hard toward all these years: his status as a beloved saviour and prophet, the realisation of his prophesying, the hope of a new dawn after the Collapse.

“Can I radio him?” John asks. “I think he might need my help.”

“I think he’ll be just fine without you,” Tracey replies, her eyes hard.

“You don’t know how angry Joseph is going to be. I can help him.”

“Help your brother?” Tracey asks, too sweet, deliberately misinterpreting his words. “Why would I want you to do that?”

“You know what I meant,” John hisses.

“That’s right, I do,” Tracey says, her pretty face twisted into a scowl. “I don’t know what you did to make Whitehorse trust you so much, but I’m not going to make the same mistake.”

“Firstly, Whitehorse _doesn’t_ trust me,” John says. He taps his foot in annoyance. “Secondly, I’ve got a vested interest in keeping Deputy Rook alive.”

“Why? So you can convert him, just like you converted Rachel?” Tracey asks. She smiles, and it’s an angry, bitter smile. “Don’t look so surprised. You’re so transparent. You think that if you get in his head, you can manipulate him. Just like you manipulate everybody. Just like you manipulated Rachel.”

Tracey’s a lot more observant than she appears. That's annoying. But John knows what to do. The way to deal with people who are too smart is to play off their observations like they’re no big deal. Misdirect them.

“Deputy Rook is the only reason that the Resistance doesn’t have my head on a spike,” John says. “So, yes, I want to keep it that way.”

“Right. You keep telling yourself that,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re not going to be able to get in his head, anyway. He’s not like Rachel. He’s not vulnerable. He’s not hurt. He’s not desperate."

John crosses his arms, bites his tongue. He can’t afford to confirm her suspicions— maybe back before the Reaping, when she was just some nameless local baseball player, it wouldn’t have mattered. Now that she’s an important member of the Resistance, it does. Now that people listen to her…

“Not desperate? Well, aren’t you just breaking my heart…” John shakes his head, clicks his tongue.

“You’re out of luck,” Tracey bares her teeth in something that is not a smile. “Rook only likes men who _aren’t_ sadistic religious fanatics.”

Huh. That’s interesting. That wasn’t the angle John had been going for, but… wait. Wait a second. If Rook isn’t ‘desperate’ but Faith was...

“You think I fucked Faith?” he asks. “You think that’s why she joined us?”

The split-second of shock on Tracey’s face is enough to tell John that he’s right. That’s exactly what she thinks. She regains control quickly, but not quick enough. John laughs: this explains so much. Why Faith had been so reluctant to ascend to her position in the first place, when all the other Faiths had been so eager. Why she threw herself into the role so completely once she _had_ accepted it, why she served Joseph so selflessly.

She’d left something precious behind. So of course she needed to do everything she could to prove to herself that she'd made the right decision.

“I hate to break it to you,” John says, and that’s a lie, this is the most fun he’s going to have for a really long time, “but Faith didn’t join us because of my incredible dick— although it _is_ incredible. She joined us because she believes in the Father. She believes in our cause. She wants to help us save the world, and that’s a _little_ bit more important than... well, you.”

Tracey, to her credit, doesn’t seem fazed. Maybe she's stronger than John thought. Maybe she can tell that he's trying to rile her up.

“Keep telling yourself that,” she says, and then she turns on her heel and leaves, for real this time.

John rolls his eyes. At least the conversation wasn’t a complete waste of time: he’s learnt that Faith has a potential weakness in Tracey, and that Rook has a potential weakness in his preference for men— if he hasn’t gotten laid in a while, John might be able to worm his way into Rook’s head that way. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s seduced someone for a good cause.

John chuckles to himself, and treats himself to the vanilla pudding he’d saved from his last meal. Good to know that he’s still as good as he ever was at pulling information from sinners. Then he picks up his sketchbook, and selects an HB pencil, ready to test Whitehorse’s newest acquisition. It might be a nice idea to do something detailed and intricate for his next tattoo— the shining scales of Justice, perhaps? He _is_ a lawyer. 

Yes… John can see it now. Delicate chains, some clever dot-work to show the metallic texture…

It’d go over his heart, right next to the half-healed SLOTH on his skin.

John starts drawing.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is also pretty short, but... plot progression!

The design for the scales of Justice goes so well that John ends up filling several pages with potential designs.

The titular Faith’s Gate, slightly open… maybe his upper arm would be a good place for that? One of Jacob’s Judges, probably for his ribcage— John hasn’t really worked with colour before, but it shouldn’t be hard to add the red streaks after the black-and-white heals up. Jacob’s dog tags, possibly for a neck piece. A skull, with antlers, surrounded by flowers, mostly to tease Rook. He’ll put that on his stomach, play with the coloured inks he’s been dying to try out. Get a feel for it before trying the Judge. A small silhouette of a bird in flight: a rook, which he’ll add along his collarbone once he’s achieved his goal of converting the Deputy.

Burke shows up at some point before lunch is served, a shit-eating grin on his face. He doesn’t have the IV any more, but he does have a bottle of water clutched in one hand— presumably there’s medicine in there too.

“You seem happy,” John says. That doesn’t bode well.

“That’s because I am,” Burke says, and he seems genuinely cheerful. “Time for you to start earning your keep around here.”

Ugh. Burke must have convinced Whitehorse to put John to work, then. He shouldn’t be surprised: as sadistic as everybody keeps saying that John is, Burke is worse.

Contrary to popular belief, John doesn’t enjoy causing suffering— well, all right, there’s a certain _art_ to it, there’s a certain _satisfaction_ when the sinners come to God, a certain _excitement_ when they writhe and moan— but Burke undoubtedly _does_ like making other people suffer. He enjoys throwing his weight around, crushing others under his heel. He loves being right and being the focus of attention. That’s probably why Burke had been a perfect toy for Faith: her methods of drugging her followers to the gills and plying them with constant, gentle affection are perfectly-suited to someone with as many personality issues as Burke.

John takes off his coat and folds it carefully. Burke leads him downstairs to the shower room, without cuffs, where he’s presented with a broom. There’s a mop and a bucket in the corner, and more cleaning supplies piled together in one of the sinks: clean-ish cloths, bleach, disinfectant, scourers, brushes, cleaning sprays…

“Get to work, then,” Burke says, and he has the gall to sit in a chair near the door.

“You’re not helping?”

“Doctor’s orders,” Burke replies, crossing his arms as he looks at John expectantly.

Ugh. Of course. Asshole.

John closes his eyes for a moment. It’s not going to be as fun as leading Rook and Pratt through the bunker was, but at least he’s not stuck in that cell. At least this is a chance to worm further into Whitehorse’s good books: his aim is to get the Sheriff to think of him as ‘pretty decent, for one of them Peggies’, as opposed to ‘that sick, sadistic motherfucker’.

“Can I have some gloves?” John asks, resigned to his fate. He can kill Burke later. Maybe John will kiss him first, just to disgust him, before stabbing him so be bleeds out all slow and painful.

“No.”

John scowls. His manicure has been ruined for a couple weeks now, and he _really_ doesn’t want to make it worse.

“Have you ever heard of the Occupational Safety and Health Act?” John asks. It’s not a great argument, John isn’t an employee, but maybe the threat of a future lawsuit will soften Burke up a little.

“I don’t know, have you ever heard of domestic terrorism?” Burke replies. “Dry hands are going to be the least of your concerns when this is over. I’m going to be pressing for charges of treason.”

…Or maybe it won’t. John rolls his eyes, and picks up the broom. Burke can try to press charges, but they won’t stick. Even if the Collapse weren’t coming and the government weren’t too busy dealing with the current nuclear crisis, John knows the law inside out. No jury in this country will convict him, not after he’s done poking holes in whatever case Burke tries to bring forward.

John carefully sweeps all the trash in the room to the centre, finds a plastic bag to put it all in. The bag gets shoved into a sink, a makeshift trash can. He reads the instructions on a couple of the cleaning sprays. Would it be better to clean the grime off the tiles first, or tackle the black mould growing everywhere? No— the mould stuff has to be stronger, right? So that’ll probably clean everything else off too. He sprays it liberally over a section of wall in the furthest shower cubicle, the overwhelming stench of chlorine burning his nose and throat.

“Open the window,” Burke calls. “We’re not trying to choke ourselves. Well, maybe you are.”

The windows in the shower room are right next to the ceiling. Each one is maybe the size of a shoebox, barred on the outside, and are opened inwards through an old-fashioned pole mechanism. It’s a pain, especially with Burke’s shitty instructions to ‘help’ him, but John eventually gets three of them open, letting the distant sound of gunfire and engines waft through the air. Honestly. As soon as John’s back at his ranch, he’s going to file a lawsuit against whoever designed this building, assuming they’re not dead yet. Everything in this place is inconvenient.

The temperature drops a couple extra degrees: it was already cold in the jail, but it’s moreso now that there’s a steady flow of fresh air circulating. Still, John breathes deeply, the burning in his throat less intense now. He’s not an outdoorsman by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s been so long since he was last outdoors that he’s almost starting to miss the feeling of cold air against his skin.

John takes a scourer, experimentally starts scrubbing, trying to avoid getting any chemicals on his skin. It doesn’t work as well as he expected, but he can see the blue of the tiles underneath all the grime that used to be there, some of the black mould lifting from the grout.

Huh. It’s… kind of satisfying, seeing his work pay off. Like finishing an easy puzzle, or arranging his current case files just-so. If John weren’t being forced into this, and he had gloves, and Burke weren’t here, then it might even be rewarding. He wipes the residue off the walls with a wet cloth, and starts on the next section. He wipes at his eyes with the cuff of his clean, rolled-up sleeve— the fumes are making his eyes water, a weird sparkling at the corners of his eyes.

John finishes two more sections of wall, just starting work in the middle cubicle when there’s a loud scraping sound. He turns his head, and Burke’s standing now, swaying gently on his feet.

“What?” John demands. “I’m doing a good job, aren’t I? If you have a problem, you can do it instead.”

Burke doesn’t respond. Which is strange. He usually takes any available opportunity to mock John.

John squints, wiping his eyes again.Burke doesn’t look mad, or… anything. His expression is curiously blank, and his eyes are—

Oh, _shit_.

His eyes are Blissed. Irises almost white, with ultra-contracted pupils. John glances at a nearby mirror— it’s hard to tell under all the grime, but his eyes look too pale. That must have been what the sparkles were.

Faith has figured out what happened to Burke, and she’s come to collect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want to gush about Far Cry (or other random stuff) with me, you can find me on tumblr. i have a writing blog under peltonea, but my main blog is amistrio. :3
> 
> thank you all so much for the sweet support you’ve given me so far! i really appreciate every kudos, ever bookmark, and every comment lifts my little heart <3


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fucked up a tiny bit in the previous chapter, and forgot to put in a v short passage about John & Burke hearing gunshots and engines, so I’ve gone back and edited that in. (not-really-a-spoiler alert: Faith had the jail crop-dusted with Bliss while John was being forced to clean) I’m not totally happy with this chapter, but the plot is finally moving along... 
> 
> Also, full disclosure, I don't know how stab wounds work.

Normally, John would be ecstatic to see one of his siblings, especially trapped in enemy territory, surrounded by people who want him dead. But if Faith takes Burke back, or worse: takes John back, that screws up his plan. He needs to have Rook and Whitehorse and Burke readily available to him, so he can manipulate and coax and draw them in the right direction— specifically, draw Rook in the right direction. He can’t allow Faith to screw this up, or he’ll never be forgiven.

John crosses the room carefully, but Burke’s eyes don’t follow him. He drops his scourer into a sink, quickly rinses the chemicals off his hands, not taking his eyes off Burke for a moment.

Burke turns toward the door, starts walking. He’s not behaving like an Angel. He’s co-ordinated, though a little more sluggish than normal. If not for his silence and his Blissed-out eyes, John wouldn’t know there was anything wrong.

John dries his hands on his hoodie, and grabs the broom he’d left leaning against the wall. A terrible weapon is better than no weapon at all. He really hopes he won’t have to fight Burke— he must be somewhat decent in a fight, to have gotten to be a full US Marshall. Faith wouldn’t normally do anything to hurt John— Joseph and Jacob would never allow it, so she’s always had to let his caustic comments slide. But with Joseph pissed off, John supposedly dead, and Jacob actually dead…

Whatever Faith is doing could get really nasty, really quickly. He needs to stick with Burke, try to intervene in whatever Faith has planned so John still comes out of this mess smelling like roses. Or chemicals, as the case may be. As long as the Resistance remains, as long as Rook and Whitehorse and Burke stay alive, John’s plan might still work.

“It isn’t real,” he warns Burke, just in case he hasn’t been completely overwhelmed by Bliss. “Whatever Faith is showing you, it’s a lie.”

Burke gives no sign that he has heard or understood John’s words, and simply leaves the room. Shit. John follows Burke down the winding corridors, through the doors that lead to the strategy centre.

There’s nobody here. There were lots of people milling around earlier. John can see a half-eaten sandwich near the radios. A full cup of coffee on a table. A partially-completed crossword on a chair. They left in a hurry. John squints at the window that leads to the security room: someone is in there, hunched over the console.

The person is familiar, an older man in an ill-fitting suit.

John blinks. Mayor Minkler? Has he been at the jail this whole time?

There’s some noise in the background, almost stifled by the silence of this room. Muffled shouting. Crashing. Gunfire. Much louder than before. Something’s happening outside.

Burke crosses the room, bumping his hip against one of the tables. He’s faster now, moving like a man on a mission, headed toward the door, the one that leads to the security room and the infirmary.

John looks around, wildly, for anything that might help: there aren’t any actual weapons lying around, so he switches out his broom for a metal baseball bat that’s lying on the bunk in one of the bedroom-cells. When he turns around, Burke’s already at the door, and the noise outside is getting louder. There’s the tinny sound of music playing, which probably means that Faith is unleashing her Angels.

_Shit_. Whatever’s happening is happening fast.

John curses and sprints, following Burke as he enters the security room next door.

Mayor Minkler is shouting frantic updates into the radio, eyes fixed on the camera screens. John can see the tell-tale signs of Bliss exposure, but they’re not as advanced as with Burke. His eyes are paler, but not to the same extreme as John and Burke. And although Minkler is having difficulty with his task of flagging enemy numbers and movements, at least part of that seems to be because the people outside are also heavily dosed with Bliss. They’re uncoordinated, clearly hallucinating.

“They’re coming round the back! The front was just a distraction!” Minkler calls. “No, there aren’t any butterflies— wait— George, I said the truck was to your left, your _left_ —“ 

And then Burke is dragging him backward, away from the console. 

“See what you’ve done...” Burke murmurs as he tosses Minkler toward the desk. Minkler lands awkwardly, hitting his head, struggling to get up again.

“What are you doing?” John demands. He grips the bat tighter. What is Faith showing him? “He’s one of yours!”

Burke doesn’t answer, flicking a couple of switches on the console. There’s a faint grinding sound, and on the camera screens the prison gates are opening. That’s not good.

Minkler staggers upright, takes a couple unsteady steps forward, and grasps Burke by the shoulders, trying to drag him backward. Burke turns immediately, a knife raised in his hand— where the hell did he get that?— and sinks the blade into the soft flesh of Minkler’s chest. As Minkler staggers back in pain, Burke draws the knife free, and stabs him again in the shoulder. He tenses, as though to pull the knife free once more, but John’s moving before he knows what he’s doing, smacking the baseball bat against Burke’s skull with all his strength.

Burke crumples, dropping the still-struggling Minkler on the ground.

John glances at the console— it’s too late to close the gates now, Faith’s followers are already through. He looks over at Minkler, who’s pressing his hands against the bloody wound on his chest in shock.

“Don’t worry,” John says, sounding much more confident than he feels. They need to keep pressure on the wound, or Minkler will bleed out. “We’re going to be fine.”

As if on cue, there’s a much louder crashing sound echoing down the hall, accompanied by shouting and heavy footsteps. Faith’s followers are inside.

John takes off his hoodie, folds it, and presses it against the open wound in Minkler’s chest, careful not to jostle the knife still stuck in his shoulder. Minkler grimaces, but he helps John hold the cloth down. He’s wheezing, a faint crackling noise with every intake of breath.

It’s not that John particularly likes Minkler— on the contrary, Mayor Minkler is exactly the type of generally meek man John despises, only having a backbone when it’s inconvenient for John. He’s had countless meetings with the Mayor over the years, each one defined by rigid adherence to social etiquette and courtesies, always ending with a sour taste in John’s mouth— both from the lack of progress on his part, as well as the low-quality coffee Minkler always served. He’s an obstinate bureaucrat, at best. Still, being an annoying, quivering, useless lump of a mayor doesn’t mean that Minkler deserves to _die_. And besides, John can’t save Minkler’s soul if he’s dead.

The door opens, a couple of Faith’s men barging through. One immediately crouches, checking Burke’s pulse. The other goes to the console, starts directing the other faithful to the remaining Resistance members. Neither of them give John so much as a glance.

“I need a medic,” John says. “Minkler’s been stabbed.”

There’s no reply.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said I need a medic!” John snaps. “Where’s Doctor Lindsay?”

No reply. The man checking Burke seems satisfied that he’s not in any trouble, and produces a coil of rope which he uses to tie Burke’s hands behind his back.

“Hey!” John yells. “I am your Herald! I asked you a question!”

The man at the console pauses, and looks at his partner.

“Hey, doesn’t it seem cold in here to you?”

“Yeah,” the one tying Burke replies. “Wonder if it’s haunted.”

What are they _doing_? Did Faith instruct her followers to ignore instructions from anybody who isn’t her? What would be the point of that if John and Jacob are supposed to be dead?

“Fine! You don’t want to help me? At least staunch the bleeding so I can go find someone who will,” John says, through gritted teeth. Minkler’s blood is seeping slowly but insistently through the cloth, his breathing steadily getting harder, more damp-sounding. The man who’s tied up Burke checks the knots he’s just made, and, satisfied, stands.

“I’m gonna go help round up the sinners,” he says.

“Okay,” replies the one at the console. He leans over the mic again as the door swings shut. “Looks like the Sheriff is still fighting. I think another dose of Bliss’ll bring him round. He’s round the back, looks like— oh, yeah. You got him. Great work.”

“Stop ignoring me!” John demands. Minkler’s blood is hot against his fingers, the quiet rasping of his breath a constant reminder of just how far away they are from any kind of medical help- there are no hospitals in Hope County, all the doctors belong to Eden’s Gate, and the men who are supposed to be faithful to John and his family are _ignoring him_.

“In… infirmary…” Minkler wheezes, clearly having great difficulty speaking. Maybe the knife caught his lung. Shit. That would be really bad.

Doctor Lindsay must be in the infirmary. John glances at the console: the man is still there, directing Faith’s followers.

“Can you walk?” he asks. At least if Faith’s followers are ignoring John, they probably won’t interfere with anything he’s doing. At least, John hopes that's the case.

Minkler nods, face drawn in pain. One hand reaches up, grasping John’s shoulder as Minkler forces himself upright. His breath is too hard, too heavy, too wet. John stands with him, taking as much of Minkler’s weight as he can— he’s portly, but at least he has enough strength to keep himself on his feet. There’s yelling and screaming coming from the corridor John came in though, so they head round the back way instead, through the other door. As John predicted, the man at the console ignores them. Good.

The door to the infirmary is locked, and John swears. He bangs on the door, hard as he can.

There’s no answer. Minkler looks at John, props himself against a wall, and gestures at the door again. John nods, and knocks again, so hard his fists go numb for a second.

“Lindsay, you half-rate hack! I know you’re in there! Let me in!”

No answer.

Minkler looks at John with utter disappointment. He takes a deep, damp-sounding breath, as deep as his wounds allow, and calls in a thin, reedy voice:

“I need help... Please...”

There’s one moment of silence, then two.

“Maybe I should go try the other door,” John says, just as Dr. Lindsay replies.

“Is there anybody else with you?”

“No,” Minkler replies, and he starts coughing, a horrible, wet sound. "Just... just us..."

"Shit,” John mutters. That's really, _really_ not a good sign. He presses the cloth tighter against Minkler’s stab wound, takes one of Minkler’s arms around his shoulder, as Dr. Lindsay opens the door. He’s a little Blissed too— his eyes are too pale, and he’s having trouble with the heavy metal door.

“Oh, God,” Dr. Lindsay murmurs, clearly shocked. What a sight they two of them must make: Minkler half-dying, and John coated in his blood. “Come in— get on that bed and I’ll take a look. What happened?”

“Burke,” Minkler rasps.

“I told you that you couldn’t trust him,” John adds. He lets Minkler sit on the bed Dr. Lindsay pointed out, as Lindsay locks the door behind them.

“Was he behind the attack?” Dr. Lindsay asks.

“No, I don’t think so,” John replies. “He just started acting strangely. Faith’s in his head, and I think she decided that now was a good time to strike.”

“Okay…” Lindsay peers down at Minkler’s bloody torso, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. “Just two stab wounds, right? You'll be okay. I promise.”

Minkler nods, clearly in agony as Dr. Lindsay lifts the bloody cloth, probing at the wound. There’s some kind of commotion outside, in the main entrance hall, and John immediately heads to the door, peering through the glass.

Faith’s men are dragging the remaining resistance members through the hall, presumably intending to lock them in the cells while they fortify the prison. Faith’s there too, dragging a Blissed-out Tracey behind her by the hand. She looks up, makes eye contact with John, and waves. And then she’s gone, dragging Tracey toward the strategy centre.

Behind John, Minkler cries out in pain.

“We’ll be fine. The Deputy is on his way,” Dr. Lindsay says. “We just have to hold out until then.”


	18. Chapter 18

Deputy Rook is on his way?

It wasn’t so long ago that those words would have struck fear and rage into John’s heart. Now, though? Now those words bring something resembling relief. John has seen the CCTV footage: Rook is a one-man army. If Jacob’s Chosen couldn’t hold out against Rook, nobody else in the county stands a chance— especially not Faith’s Blissed-out followers. John kind of hopes he gets to see Rook take them out. Especially those assholes in the security room.

Minkler hisses in pain again, Doctor Lindsay immediately offering hushed words of comfort. And then: “John, I need anaesthesia. Can you get me the yellow box on the shelf over there?”

John looks at Lindsay, hunched over Minkler, hands dripping red, then at the shelf he’s pointing to. He takes the box, and returns to the bed Minkler’s lying on.

“There should be a couple syringes already prepared in there,” Lindsay says, red hand outstretched. “I need one with a blue label.”

John finds one, hands it over. Lindsay takes the rubber cap off, double-checks the syringe, and then injects Minkler near the wound.

“Is there anything else you need?” John asks. He needs to follow Faith, figure out what her plan is, but he can’t let Minkler die. So he just… hovers.

“No, I think I’ll be okay,” Lindsay replies. “As long as I stop the bleeding, anyway.”

Dr Lindsay pokes something into Minkler’s wound, and this time Minkler doesn’t cry out in pain. He just continues to look miserable as he draws in laboured breath after laboured breath.

“What’s that?” John asks.

Doctor Lindsay sighs.

“If I explained, would you understand any of the terminology I used?”

“Maybe not,” John admits, very reluctantly. His medical knowledge is pretty lax. He knows basic first aid, he knows a fair bit about anatomy, he has first-hand experience with drug rehab, and he’s watched a lot of General Hospital.

“Okay. I don’t really have time to talk this through with you, so just let me work in peace, please. All you need to know is that I’m stopping the bleeding and then I’m stitching him up.”

John rolls his eyes. Ugh. How typical of Lindsay and his cleverer-than-thou attitude.

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know later,” Lindsay promises, obviously realising that he’s just been rude. “But right now, I need to concentrate.”

If Lindsay and Minkler will be fine alone, then there’s no reason for John to stay.

“Faith is here,” John says. “I need to find out what she’s doing.”

“Oh, that's just _great_ ,” Lindsay says, bitterly. “Uh… there’s a spare key on the hook near the door. Make sure you lock up when you leave, okay?”

“Of course,” John replies, and he glances around the room: now, where did he put that baseball bat? He’d had it in the security room, when he’d hit Burke. And then… he doesn’t remember having it when he helped Minkler here. He must have dropped it, then.

Well, it’ll be a good idea to go through the security room anyway, he’ll have a better idea of what’s going on if he looks through the cameras. John heads out, locking the door just like he’d promised. The screaming from earlier seems to have stopped— knowing Faith, that could mean anything.

The douchebag who’d ignored John earlier is still in the security room, still hunched over the console. John spots his baseball bat, lying by the opposite door. Burke is gone.

The man at the console doesn’t turn his head, but John can just about see, through the reflection in the glass, that his eyes are following John. Beyond the reflection, in the strategy centre, is Faith directing her followers. They’re moving tables, forcing Resistance members into a rough semi-circle. Burke, still unconscious, is being gently carried by one of the men. They’re not finished with whatever they’re doing yet, so John has a little time to play bad cop, worse cop with the asshole at the console.

John strides across the room, turning the lock on the door so that they won't be interrupted by someone walking in. He picks up his bat.

“Why are you ignoring me?” he asks, stepping toward the man. “Did Faith tell you to do that?”

The man does not answer, but John can see that his Blissed eyes are still focused on John’s reflection in the glass.

“Very well,” John says, readying himself. “Then I guess I’ll have to drag the confession out of you.”

The man nearly dodges John’s swing, but John manages to get him really hard across the collar. There’s a sharp sound, either the snapping of bone or the impact of the metal bat, and the man cries out in pain. He staggers toward the back door, eyes fixed on John, but John manages to feint, knocking the asshole off his feet and sending him crashing down to the floor. He quickly crawls on top of the man, pinning him down, and holds his arms down with his hands.

“Why are you ignoring me?” John hisses, glaring right into the man’s Blissed eyes. He needs an answer, damn it!

“Brother John is dead,” he whispers, diverting his eyes to the ceiling behind John. “He’s dead.”

“Clearly not, I’m right here,” John replies, scowling. If the problem is as simple as ‘most of Eden’s Gate think John is dead’, then there _should_ have been a celebration when they realised that he was not. So it’s worse than that, whatever’s happened.

“In our grief, we may see things that are not true,” the man adds. “This is the Word of the Father, who speaks only truth. Brother John is _dead_.”

John snarls, and in one quick movement snatches up his bat again and smacks the man in the head until his eyes close. And then John hits him in the chest and the arms and the abdomen and— and _everywhere_ , until John’s rage subsides. He breathes heavily, checks that the man’s still breathing, and then climbs up and off the unconscious body. That douchebag is going to _hurt_ when he wakes up, and he's going to _deserve_ it.

Okay. John didn't get a whole lot of useful information out of that asshole, but maybe there are answers hidden in his bullshit.

He mentioned the Word of the Father. Did Joseph instruct the rest of Eden's Gate to ignore him? That’s not a good sign, but— well, it makes _sense_. It would mean that John couldn’t simply stay with Eden’s Gate after being excommunicated. And the preoccupation with John’s death… What was it Grant had said, before kicking John in the face? _'Corpses don’t talk!'_

John suddenly feels very cold. 

No. No, Joseph would never... 

John shakes his head, as though he can shake that blasphemous thought right out of his skull and staggers to the console. Faith is speaking now, the Resistance members arranged in a semi-circle on the floor. Tracey is kneeling to one side, closer to the hallway door, and Whitehorse is next to her.

“—does not _belong_ to him. He took someone who was _happy_ in the Bliss, and he tried to take them _away_. How cruel. How _prideful_ …” Faith trails off. “I am not here to punish you for his mistake. On the contrary, I’m here to offer you a second chance. Join us, and end this pointless fighting. Join us, and become part of a brighter future in the new Eden. No more pain, no more hurt. Only _Bliss_.”

Faith’s actually a pretty good speaker, though she lays on her sweet, sisterly persona a little thick. 

“No…” one of the Resistance fighters murmurs. She’s barely able to support her own weight, even kneeling as she is. But she’s got a real fighting spirit, and John has to respect that. She’s wrong, but she has _belief,_ and that's in short supply amongst the sinners. “No, I’m— I’m not gonna join you…”

“Then you’ll stay here until you see,” Faith says, a hint of sharpness under her saccharine tone. “All of you. They  _always_ see, eventually.”

Faith gestures to her men, and the one carrying Burke leaves the room, heading to the main entrance. Whitehorse is dragged to his feet, and even as heavily-dosed with Bliss as he is— John can see that Whitehorse is standing only because there are two men supporting his weight— he’s struggling as he’s also forced to the entrance. Faith must be taking them back to her Gate.

They won’t be in danger there, but he doesn’t like that she’s stealing them. Still, there's not a whole lot he can do against Faith and her forces all alone... 

“What are you doing, my dear sister?” John hisses into the tannoy mic. “They’re _mine_.”

Faith startles a little at the sound of John’s voice through the tinny speakers. She turns her head and glances at where he’s standing, through the glass. She recovers quickly, and ignores his question, moving to Tracey instead. She kneels, and John can see that she’s whispering something to Tracey— he can’t read her lips at this angle, but her jaw is moving and Tracey’s eyes are focused at where her mouth would be. Faith leans forward, and John can only assume that she's kissing Tracey on the mouth. When she pulls back, Tracey’s Blissed-out eyes meet Faith’s, and she shakes her head slowly.

Faith stands up straight, turning on her heel. John can see her face now— her pretty features are twisted into rage.  She snaps her fingers, and Tracey is dragged out of sight. John shudders. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

“Don’t interfere,” Faith says, uncharacteristically forcefully, her eyes fixed on John. He raises his hands in a mock-surrender, before speaking into the mic again.

“Understood,” he says. There's no point in pissing off Faith before Rook shows up.

Then Faith is gone, following Burke and Whitehorse. The rest of her men remain, though. On the screens, John can see them patrolling the rooftops and outside. He can see something else, too: there’s a van pulling out of the parking lot to the north of the building, but there’s also a blurry shape up on the southern wall. The shape is weaving through the trail of bodies, both faithful and sinner, lying on the walls.

A guard falls, an arrow sticking through his skull, and the shape moves, a little more detail coming into view on the camera. Dark hair, cut short. Brown skin, covered by a ragged t-shirt and worn jeans. Usually-dark eyes, now clouded by Bliss, narrowed in concentration as another arrow gets nocked into place.

It's Deputy Rook.

John smiles. This is going to be so much _fun_.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised that I fucked up a little bit in the previous chapter too… I just got to this level on my infamous-difficulty playthrough, and I had forgotten that Rook gets seriously Blissed up before they arrive at the prison. I’ve gone back and tweaked the last two chapters a tiny bit to make things a little more aligned with canon— Burke now does a little creepy Faith-speaking before going all stabby, and Rook’s eyes are now the right colour on the camera screens. 
> 
> In other news, I very rarely write fight scenes, so… uh… my humblest apologies for what you are about to read. OTL

John looks up and counts the number of men in the strategy centre. Eight. All heavily armed. One is on the second floor,two on the first, and the rest are scattered across the ground floor. Too many for John to handle alone. There’s no way that they’ll _all_ ignore him if he starts attacking. No, he should wait for Rook to get here, and _then_ he can take them on.

John looks at the camera screens again. Rook is climbing up onto the roof of the shower block, kicking one poor bastard right off. Then he starts scaling a ladder, to reach even further up. There are no cameras up that high.

What on earth is up there? Is he going to try to find a way in through the roof? Did someone lock the outer doors when John wasn’t looking?

John rubs his eyes, and regrets it when he feels dried flakes of blood fall down onto his cheeks, catching in his eyelashes. He looks down: most of the blood from earlier is dry, some sticky patches at the corners of his fingernails. There’s a fair amount on his shirt as well. Still, it could have been worse. He could have been wearing one of his suits. At least it doesn’t matter if this is ruined.

John sighs, wipes some of the flaking blood off onto his pants, grimacing at the texture. Ugh, cheap polyester. When this is over, he’ll never wear cargo pants again. He waits, impatiently eyeing the camera screens for any changes.

There’s nothing for a minute. Then two.

John taps his fingers against the console, and he almost misses it when it happens: the man on the second floor vanishes, tackled to the floor. The cameras up there aren’t at _quite_ the right angle, but he can just see someone crouched, peering over the railing.John squints through the window of the security room: the person is not visible from down here. He checks the camera again: they're heading along the southern wall, ready to drop down through a gap in the walkway onto the man standing guard below.

John grins, and takes that as his cue to start causing mischief. He unlocks the security room door, and nearly trips over Tracey, who’s been dumped pretty much right outside. He swears, nearly dropping his baseball bat.

“What are you doing out here?” John demands. Which is futile, because Tracey’s eyes are still pale with Bliss, and she can barely lift her head to look at him. She’s not even struggling against the rope binding her arms behind her back. Tracey simply laughs, and it’s the short, bitter kind of laugh that always comes from someone on the verge of tears. Okay, no answers just yet. That's fine.

John sighs, and tries the door to the strategy centre. It’s locked. Fortunately, the key he got from the infirmary fits just right, opening the lock with a quiet click. He locks it again behind him, so the men in here can’t escape Rook’s wrath.

Just to be certain, John crosses to the other side of the room and checks that door too, confident that the guards will ignore him. He’s right on both counts: that door is also locked, and the guards continue to ignore him, though he does receive a couple of quizzical glances. He glances up at the first floor: he thinks he can see the figure crouched where the southernmost guard used to be. He nods up at them, a silent message: _I am not your enemy_.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” John says. “My dear sister has really done you wrong. You’re supposed to be her most trusted lieutenants, aren’t you? You’ve worked so hard for her, done so well. And this is the thanks you get?"

John doesn’t expect any of them to seriously listen to him, though he does get a couple of hesitant glances. The point of this isn’t actually to change anybody’s mind. It’s to provide a distraction for Rook, a little outlet for John’s dramatic flair.

“You’re the best Faith has. The most devout, the most devoted,” John continues. He laughs, raising his hands in a gesture of disbelief, and his voice almost drowns out the whistle of an arrow through the air. From the corner of his eye, John sees the other guard on the first floor crumple, and he speaks a little louder to muffle the sound of his fall. “And yet she’s using you as— as what? As cannon fodder? How long do you think you’re going to last when the Deputy gets here? You’ve seen what he can do, haven’t you?”

There’s at least one man who looks a little like he’s about to lose his nerve at that little speech. Good.

“You really should be afraid,” John adds. “Of both of us, that is.”

As if on cue, another guard falls to the ground with an arrow sticking out of one burst eyeball. John immediately swings his bat at the man closest to him. He’s turning around to face John at his little threat, rifle rising in his hands. When John’s blow connects to his skull, everything seems to happen at once.

There’s a sudden shout of fear or surprise from someone in the room as Rook leaps down from the walkway, landing on top of another poor bastard. Rook takes him out with his bare hands. The man John’s just attacked staggers, dropping his weapon, so John hits him again and he falls. Rook rises out of his crouch, aiming a handgun at another of the guards. He squeezes the trigger twice, and the man’s head explodes. The final man tries to make it to the back door, but John gets him right in the kneecap, a satisfying crunch as the man’s knocked off-balance, his scream silenced by a bullet lodged in his throat.

Deputy Rook walks over to what’s left of the man, gurgling in agony. Rook takes a deep breath, and kicks the man’s head hard enough to snap his neck, putting him out of his misery.

John pokes at a different corpse with his foot. He thinks about taking a handgun from one of them, but he doesn’t have any way to hide it. Even if he tucks it into the waistband of his pants (a terrible idea, Jacob taught him better), John’s hoodie has been ruined and the t-shirt he’s wearing isn’t baggy enough to disguise the shape of the grip. Someone would surely take the fact that John is armed as an excuse to hurt him, or worse. It isn’t worth it.

Instead, John heads over to the tied-up Resistance members, slices through their bonds with a utility knife one of the guards left on the table with the maps. They don’t thank him, most of them being either too Blissed to stand, or just sober enough to mutter amongst themselves, throwing furtive glances John’s way. Rook’s already at the main door, unlocking it with a key one of the guards had apparently been carrying.

“Faith took Burke and Whitehorse,” John says, watching Rook free Tracey. “I’d guess they’re headed to her Gate now.”

“You didn’t stop them?” Rook asks. The white of his Blissed-out eyes only accentuates the dark, bruise-like circles beneath them. It’s impressive that he’s still upright at all, let alone that he’s been fighting so well. It’s also impressive that he manages to be such an ungrateful dick despite being dosed to the gills with holy Bliss.

“I’m incredible in court, not combat,” John replies, annoyed. This is the thanks he gets for helping the Resistance? Passive-aggressive remarks from Rook? “Did you expect me to fight off twelve men with a baseball bat?”

Tracey staggers to her feet with no small amount of difficulty, and Rook reaches out an arm to steady her, a quiet “hey, you’re okay” to her ear. Then he looks at John. Really looks. His eyebrows raise in surprise— John can only imagine how bedraggled he must look, all bloodied and messy as he is.

“That your blood?”

“No,” John replies.

“Where’s Minkler?” Rook asks, with more urgency this time. “Burke stabbed him, right?”

“Uh— I took him to the infimary. Doctor Lindsay’s looking after him,” John replies, more than a little confused. How does Rook know that Burke…? Wait. Never mind. This is Faith’s territory. Her Bliss. Asking questions is futile here. Most likely, Faith showed Rook a vision of whatever she’d planned to have Burke do to Minkler— God only knows how _that_ works. John hasn't gotten this far in life by questioning these things.

“Good,” Rook nods. “Everybody else accounted for?”

“Uh,” John says, and he doesn’t actually know the answer to that. “I guess so?”

Tracey grasps Rook’s arm, leans forward. She mutters in his ear before her legs give way beneath her: “don’t let her get away with this…”

Rook catches Tracey’s weight, sets her down gently on the floor, back against the wall.

“Stay here,” Rook says, addressing John. “I’ll be back soon.”

“What? Where are you going?”

“To get Burke and Whitehorse back,” Rook replies. He stands again, checks his pockets quickly. Satisfied, Rook turns on his heel.

“You can’t go alone,” John protests. This is a _perfect_ opportunity— if he helps Rook save the others, Rook will have no choice but to respect John, to hold him in high esteem. And then converting him will be _easy_. “Faith’s Gate is a labyrinth. It’s flooded with Bliss. You’ll never find your way out.”

“Try me,” Rook replies, and he’s already halfway to the door leading to the entrance hall.

“I’ve seen the blueprints,” John adds, following Rook. “I practically built the place. I know where everything is.”

“You can radio me,” Rook replies, not stopping. "Same as you did with your bunker."

“You won’t be able to see a goddamn thing,” John snarls. Why won’t Rook just _listen_? He’s going to get himself killed! “The second you get in that bunker, you’ll be tripping so hard you won’t be able to remember your own name. I’m immune to the Bliss. You _need_ me there with you. Didn't we make a good team just now?”

Rook doesn’t stop, but his pace _does_ falter for a fraction of a second. Just enough for John to know that he’s winning.

“I won’t get in the way,” John promises. “I won’t stab you in the back. I won’t do anything besides guide you in and guide you out again. You don’t even have to give me a weapon. Let me _save_ you. Let me save you all."

Rook’s jaw tenses, and he pauses at the door. One second, two seconds, then three.

“Fine,” Deputy Rook says, eventually. “Have it your way.”

Oh, John _loves_ winning. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I may as well post a slightly longer chapter this time, seeing as this is the big two-zero. (And to think I originally thought I could wrap this story up in less than ten chapters… or even less than twenty-two…)
> 
> Here we go: Faith’s boss fight! I'll be honest, I don't have a very good grip on Faith's character at all. I love her, but her personality is so well-hidden beneath layers and layers and layers of lies and misdirection that I honestly have no idea how to write her. So... I'm sorry and I hope you enjoy?

“We’re going to need a chopper,” John says, when Rook starts heading to one of the few non-burning vehicles in the lot— his horrible neon car. The air is cold and tastes like Bliss and burning, but it’s air. It’s outside. John takes a deep lungful, ignoring the unpleasant ticking of Bliss and gas fumes in his throat.

“I know where Faith’s Gate is,” Rook says, slowly. Annoyed. “I’ve driven past it.”

“They’re not going to just let you in,” John replies. “You’re talking about the gate laid into the base of that mountain, right? That’s locked. There’s an entrance at the top that’s always left open. And if it’s not, my key will work. You still have it, don’t you?”

His key will also open the lower gate, but hopefully Rook is too distracted, too Blissed to read between the lines and realise that. The upper entrance to Faith’s Gate is closer to the Bliss production factory than it is to the prisoner cells, and taking a longer route to get to Burke and Whitehorse will mean that it looks like John is being far more helpful than he actually is. And right now, John needs to appear saintly.

Taking Faith’s Gate upside-down will also be the last thing she’s expecting: all her men will be either working the factory, or patrolling the prisoner halls near the lower entrance. (John’s read through all of Jacob’s deployment plans, he knows that Faith will follow them to the _letter_.) That element of surprise will be sorely needed, considering that only one of them is armed. John’s baseball bat is still lying somewhere in the strategy centre.

Rook doesn’t say anything in reply to John. He just nods, and John can kind of see the leather cord slung around his neck. Good. Rook trudges down the hill near the parking lot entrance. There’s a tiny, beat-up helicopter sitting on the grass, barely big enough for two people. Rook takes the pilot’s seat, either unaware that John’s piloting genius extends to helicopters too, or too distrustful to allow John to take control. John decides to assume it’s the former, and straps himself into the passenger seat.

Rook doesn’t talk as he flies them northeast. He doesn’t need to say anything. The silence does all the talking for him: he clearly doesn’t know exactly what happened at the prison, isn’t sure why Faith left her brother behind, can’t quite decide why John didn’t just _leave_.

John doesn’t answer any of his unasked questions, because there’s no way to explain without outing himself as no longer in Joseph's good books, no longer useful in Rook's grandiose plan. Instead, John points at the spot he wants Rook to land at: a flat patch of grass near the vents at the very top of the factory. Rook doesn’t argue, simply follows John’s directions, landing them with a gentle jolt.

Rook starts coughing pretty much the moment they leave the helicopter, clearly affected by the Bliss fumes. John ignores the increasing sparkles in his vision and the heaviness of his limbs, and drags Rook by the wrist when he doesn’t immediately move to follow John down to the entrance. Rook stumbles obediently for a couple steps, but then he stops and shakes John off. He turns and heads east instead, up the slope that leads to the Path.

“Not that way, you idiot!” John snaps, but Rook doesn’t seem to hear him. Instead he walks purposefully onward, his powerful legs carrying him easily over rock and grass and bloody petals. Just as Burke had moved, earlier in the jail, as Faith had strung him along in the Bliss.

John cranes his neck as he catches up to Rook, and he knows the blank expression etched into his face. Faith's gotten him. Oh, John could _scream_. Of course Faith would try to ruin John’s meticulously-planned redemption. She’s always been jealous, always been petty, always been so pathetically two-faced…

“Stop it, Faith!” he shouts, his voice resounding through the chasm that leads to the easternmost edge of Hope County. “You’re spoiling everything!”

There’s no answer, although John can hear the faint echoing of distant singing. It sounds like Faith, but he can’t see her yet. Rook keeps walking, toward the rope bridge leading east, swaying dangerously in mid-air. John looks down at the ground very far below him, then back at Rook, and very reluctantly follows him.

It isn’t that John is afraid of heights. He actually quite enjoys them. There's nothing quite like the view from a skyscraper's penthouse suite or from a luxury cabin on a mountain peak. John just likes to have a well-constructed, solid structure beneath him if he’s going to be hundreds of feet in the air. Affirmation, John’s beloved plane, fits that definition. So does a helicopter, the Atlanta apartment building John had lived in all those years ago, and the giant marble statue modelled after Joseph’s likeness that Rook blew up not two days ago. A rickety bridge made of frayed rope and rotting wood does not fit that definition, no matter how many garlands of flowers or flowing white banners decorate it.

Miraculously, the bridge does not break underneath John, and he walks beside Rook over the soft, green grass on the other side. The singing is louder now, and— yes, there’s Faith, standing near a small, shallow lake. She’s dancing by herself, all slow spinning and soft gestures with her hands. She’s singing Joseph’s favourite hymn, because of course she’d try to rub John’s desperate situation in his face. She doesn’t notice them at first, lost in her praise of the Father.

“…saved a wretch like me…” Faith trails off, head tilting up as she spots Rook and John. She shoots a nasty glare at John before smiling beautifully at Deputy Rook, making her way to him.

Faith walks very slowly, her arms held oddly, like she’s grasping at something imaginary at either side of her. She kneels slowly near Rook’s feet, sweeps her hands through a patch of flowers, and then stands, her arms pushing the imaginary things forward.

“Your Sheriff kept you from walking the Path,” Faith says. Rook’s got his head turned away from Faith, in the direction she’d waved her arms. He must be seeing Whitehorse, then. Maybe Burke too. Faith continues speaking, and Rook’s gaze snaps to her. “But now he understands its purpose. And he’ll join our family in Eden. Just like Burke. And if you try to stop him…"

She steps closer to Rook, slides her hands over his stubbled jaw, ruffles her fingers through his soft-looking hair, and John _seethes_. She doesn’t have the right to be so close to him. Not at all.

Faith giggles, sprinting toward the lake behind her. She splashes through the ankle-deep water to the small island in the centre. Rook stumbles forward, toward the shore, and John grasps his shoulder. Rook pauses, glancing back.

“Don’t listen to her,” John warns. “There’s nothing there. Faith is a liar.”

Rook nods, but his expression is still blank, his eyes sliding right through John, like he's not even there. Did he even hear what John said? 

“Your Sheriff was a wall,” Faith calls, balancing on the rock in the middle of the island, hands stretched to either side. “A wall between you and the Father. A wall that kept you from seeing his Truth…”

Faith produces several ornate throwing knives, and throws them at Rook with surprising accuracy. The Deputy startles, a long string of curses on his lips as the first one sinks into his bicep. He dodges the other two, drawing his hunting rifle, and pauses. He’s very still, his eyes moving quickly around the lake as though he’s lost sight of Faith. She’s in virtually the same spot, delicately stepping off her rock and onto the grass beneath it.

“She’s right there!” John hisses, pointing at her. Faith scowls, quickly sprinting to the northern edge of the lake as Rook fires at the spot John pointed out, and at that moment unintelligible, high-pitched screaming tears through the air. John winces, covering his ears. It doesn’t stop, the source of the racket getting closer and closer, until John can see several familiar figures shambling across the grass.

Angels.

Before all this bullshit with getting kicked out of Eden’s Gate, John would never have felt nervous around the Angels. Sure, they were creepy as hell, with their rotted-apart mouths and their blank eyes and the whole ‘brains eroded by Bliss’ thing. But they would never hurt John. They would never harm a Herald or, God forbid, the Father himself. Mostly because before the current Faith, they were always docile. The Bliss formula had not yet been advanced enough to allow the previous Faiths any control over the hallucinations or the actions of the affected. And once the Angels had been weaponised, Faith always had them completely under her control. She served the Father so dutifully that she would never consider turning them on John, no matter how much he pissed her off.

Now, though?

Now Faith is watching John, a cruel smile twisting the corners of her mouth, and John feels his stomach twist itself into knots.

Shit.

“Give me a weapon!” John demands, grabbing Rook’s shoulder again. Rook looks irritated for a moment, but that quickly segues into confusion, and then fear.

“Angels?” Rook mutters, and his hand immediately goes to the weapons he has strapped to his back. His bow and quiver are slung over his left shoulder, a holster for his rifle on his right. There’s a shovel strapped there too, and he yanks it out of place, shoving it in John’s hands. There’s a smiley face painted on it.

John doesn’t have time to say anything before the first Angel is upon them. It ignores Rook entirely, clawing at John instead. He swings with all his panicked might, slicing through its rotting face. It goes down easily, and so does the one after that and the one after that and the one after _that_.

“Your Sheriff is so close!” Faith declares. “So close to accepting the Word of the Father into his heart!”

John shrieks as one of the Angels at his feet forces itself upright, a vice-like hand gripping his thigh as it tries to use him as leverage. He panics and hits it again and again, until its skull is strangely lumpy, the skin splitting to show bone and blood. There’s gunfire coming from Rook’s direction, quickly followed by Faith crying out, and yet more Angels descending upon John. 

“Now you see me!” Faith giggles, though it’s a hysterical, pained giggle to John’s ears. “Now you don’t!”

Rook shoots a couple of the Angels in the head, giving John a little breathing room.

“John, which one is real? There are twelve!” Rook asks, nodding at the empty lake. His eyes are moving fast, tracking each imaginary figure. Faith is actually limping toward the furthest shore, red staining her left arm. She’s avoiding her right leg, where there’s a couple of nasty-looking gouges oozing blood, but she’s still moving fast.

“Ten o’clock,” John replies. “She’s going clockwise!”

At that, Faith’s head snaps up and she glares at John, all pain and rage, tears dripping down her face.

“Stop it!” she snaps. “You said you wouldn’t interfere!”

“Obviously I lied!” John yells right back, and smacks another Angel down to the floor. It starts twitching, like it’s going to get back up again, so John has to hit it another seven or eight times, just to be safe. There’s a burst of gunfire as he does that, and Faith screams in either fear or pain. Then she laughs.

“Feeling confused?” she giggles, taunting Rook again, and there’s more gunfire in answer. John glances up: Rook’s facing Faith, but he doesn’t seem to see her. She’s holding the knives again, flicking them at Rook. He staggers as one buries itself in his shoulder, and John shouts again as Faith’s grin stretches wide. She's clearly aiming the next one at Rook’s head.

“In front of you!”

Rook fires twice before Faith can move, and this time her left leg collapses under her weight. She cries out, hitting the floor with a heavy thump. She clutches her bleeding thigh, her green eyes wide with agony.

“No!” she wails, scrambling desperately backward. “Why do you keep _fighting_ us? The Father showed you, didn’t he?”

“None of you have given me a choice!” Rook shouts back, turning in a wide circle, clearly unable to see Faith again. He doesn’t sound angry. And his face— it’s that same sadness as before. When John reminded him of just how many innocent believers he’d killed.

“You’d throw away what I offer?” Faith demands. She produces yet another knife— seriously, _where_ is she keeping them? Does her dress have cleverly-hidden knife pockets?— and throws it. But this time her aim is way off, her face clouded by pain and fear.She crawls backward, unable to put her full weight on her legs. “You _can’t_ refuse the Father! You know what’s coming! The Collapse is on its way! Don’t you know what he’ll do to me if I fail? It'll be exactly what he did to John! You need to _listen_ to me!”

Fuck. John wheels around, battering another Angel to the floor. Faith had better not spill the beans— he needs Rook to keep thinking he’s useful and important, otherwise his whole plan goes to shit. He looks around wildly, trying to catch his breath. The Angels are coming fewer and further between, like Faith can’t concentrate enough to keep summoning them. God, John wishes he knew how she was doing that. He should have forced Faith to tell him before all of this bullshit started. Before the Reaping.

Another Angel claws at his back, so John hits it and stomps on its face. He can’t see any more, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any more out there, waiting. He focuses his attention on his sister and the Deputy.

Faith’s hold on Rook seems to be wavering. Rook spots her for sure, leaning against a rock on the southwestern shoreline. He raises his rifle again and his expression turns back to confusion and loss, despite the fact she’s still weeping in the same spot.

“She’s still there!” John yells, but Rook doesn't fire. Instead, he takes a couple steps closer to her.

“Why are you _doing_ this?” Faith sobs. She’s clutching a throwing knife again, but her hand is trembling, her fingers so slick with blood she can barely hold the damned thing. Her breath is coming too quick, too shallow, her voice cracking. “This isn’t my fault! _None_ of this is my fault! Do you think I wanted this?!”

Rook hesitates, even though he can clearly see Faith in front of him. An easy target.

“He plied me with drugs!” Faith wails, streaking her tear-stained face with red in a futile attempt to wipe her tears away. “He threatened me! I was _seventeen_! I was just a child!”

Faith is a great actress. She sounds genuinely terrified. She looks it, too. Her hair is a mess, her face all flushed and splotchy. Her nose is running, her limbs are trembling, there’s a faint sheen of sweat on every visible inch of skin. If John didn’t know Joseph better (who else could be the ‘he’ Faith refers to?), if he didn’t already know that Faith is a master manipulator, he might believe her.

Rook takes another step, so he's right next to her. He crouches down to her eye level and Faith jerks back, pressing herself against the rock.

“No!” she cries, covering her face as she flinches away from the hand he holds out to her. For God's sake. Of _course_ Rook and his bleeding heart fell for Faith’s shit. Hook, line, and sinker.

One second passes, then two. Faith uncovers her eyes, still hyperventilating, still crying.

“I gave your brother a chance to end this,” Rook says, voice surprisingly even, despite the fact he’s got at least six tiny knives embedded in his flesh. “I’m extending that same courtesy to you. You come with me. You get medical treatment. And then after this is all over, after I’ve dealt with Joseph, you go to jail and you sort your shit out, and you _live_.“

Faith doesn’t answer. She glances at John, and then back at Rook. She opens her mouth, and then she closes it.

“What? You’d seriously rather be dead than in jail?” Rook asks. Faith shakes her head, averting her eyes.

“He’s gonna be so mad,” Faith whispers, barely able to get the words out. Her hands are shaking, and John doesn’t think it’s from the cold. Blood loss and panic— she needs medical attention soon. 

“Who? John?” Rook asks.

Faith shakes her head.

“Joseph,” she replies. “I— I can’t. I _can’t_.”

She starts crying again, repeats her little mantra of ‘I can’t’ through heaving breaths. Rook strokes her hair, clearly trying to comfort her. He gives John a long, pleading look, and the message behind it is clear: _help me_.

John doesn’t particularly like Faith. She’d never belonged in the family, only there because of Joseph’s sorrowful fixation on his dead wife and baby. Herald Faith is a creepy mother-daughter-sister-wife figure all rolled into one. That being said, John doesn’t particularly dislike this Faith either. She’s always served the family well, always tried to keep their relationship on the pleasant side of neutral. She’d always known her place, never tried to pretend she was more important than she really was. Always kept her mouth shut when it was important.

She doesn’t deserve to die. Not here. Not like this.

John sighs. He steps forward, clears his throat.

“There’s someone waiting for you back at the jail,” he says. If the thought of rekindling things with Tracey doesn’t sway Faith, then nothing will. Furthermore, if she’s really so scared of Joseph, then she’ll probably leap at any opportunity to free herself from his influence. He continues: “We’re going to blow up your Gate in half an hour. Joseph is going to assume that you’re dead. You don’t actually have to be.”

There’s silence for a long moment, broken only by the soft sound of Faith crying, and John taps his foot impatiently against the grass. If she’s going to choose to die, she should just do it. And if she chooses to go with them— well, that’s great. John likes being right. But she needs to _hurry_. It’s cold up here, damn it. He didn’t have time to get his coat before they headed out.

Faith raises her head, her eyes closed. She sniffles, clearly trying to regain control over herself. She takes a deep, shuddering breath and wipes her tears away with her bloody fingers. When she opens them, there's a quiet kind of strength there that John hasn't seen in her before.

“Okay,” Faith croaks. She nods, her tear-stained face pale and twisted in pain. 

Rachel reaches forward and takes Rook's hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure? I was absolutely planning to kill off Faith, until I accidentally wrote in her relationship with Tracey. Lesbians save lives, guys. (Also, let's be real, it's not very fair if only John gets a redemption arc.)


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to part one of my third-least-favourite mission in the game: Faith's Gate. (The second-least-favourite is Jacob’s boss fight because the game won’t let me snipe him from a distance, as is my usual playstyle. The first-least-favourite is John’s boss fight because I’m terrible at air combat. Thank you Ubisoft for Nick and Addie!)
> 
> I wrote the layout of the bunker from memory this time around, because… this is the next mission I have to do in my Infamous playthrough and I don't want to think about it because I am absolutely dreading it. I changed around some stuff, like where the enemies are placed, because I think it helps the flow of the story if Rook and John get a little time to talk before they do any more fighting.
> 
> Also, Adelaide finally shows up in this chapter! I’m sorry to say that I actually don’t have a very good grasp of her personality because I very rarely use her. I always have Nick as my air support Gun For Hire, and I only switch him out in very specific circumstances (if he’s out of commission, or if I want to listen to banter between specific companions). So, I'm sorry in advance if I utterly butcher her character. OTL

Rook curls his hand around Rachel’s, a sincere smile on his lips. He almost looks like a different person when he’s not frowning. He helps her up, and she leans heavily on him, her face creased in pain. Still, she isn’t crying anymore.

“How are we going to do this?” Rook mutters, at least partly to himself. “The helicopter only fits two people…”

“You can fly her to a doctor,” John says. “I’ll wait here.”

“I’m not leaving you here alone,” Rook replies, sharply. He turns his head to glare at John, clearly still doesn’t trust him. Which is ridiculous, considering that John just spent a solid twenty minutes acting as Rook’s eyes and a living piece of Angel bait, not to mention his heroics at the jail before _that_. Rook cocks his head slightly. “Wait— can you fly a chopper? You could take her back to the jail.”

“Yes,” John says. “And I’m also aware that the second I leave, you’ll head into Faith’s Gate without me and get yourself _killed_. Anyway, have you considered that taking Faith back to the jail is a terrible idea? The people there want to kill her even more than they want to kill me. The only reason they haven’t torn _me_ apart is because Whitehorse was there.”

“There’s nowhere else to go,” Rook replies, clearly frustrated. “Lindsay is there, and they have medical supplies at the jail. The only other option is Doctor Perkins, and she’s much further away.”

“N-not the jail,” Rachel says. “Not yet. _Please_.”

Rook bites his lip, and then his expression clears. He takes out his handheld radio.

“Addie? You available? I got into a bit of trouble at Faith’s Gate. Medical attention required.”

A moment later, he receives an answer, and John can almost hear a woman’s voice through the static.

“Great,” Rook replies. “I’m at the, uh, cliffs just northeast of Faith’s Gate. The one with the lakes.”

There’s another burst of static, and then Rook nods to himself. He immediately hails someone else.

“Doctor Perkins? You there?” 

There’s some kind of reply, and John rolls his eyes. Rook is truly a man of extremes. When he decides to be nice, he’s far too nice. It really isn’t fair. Rook is never this nice to _John_.

“I have someone with me that needs medical treatment. Can you—?”

Rook is cut off by a stream of static.

“Okay, understood. Thanks anyway.” Rook lowers the radio and looks at John. “She’s not at her lab right now. She’s at the summer camp, checking on the Judges she’s trying to detox. It’ll take her a while to get back.”

“Looks like jail is the only option for you,” John says, tucking a bloody strand of hair out of Rachel’s face. Rachel nods, though she’s obviously unhappy. Knowing her, she probably wanted to visit the Henbane after she’d been patched up, ready to charm Tracey on her own terms. Knowing Tracey, she would’ve been successful. 

Rook starts speaking into his radio a third time.

“Doctor Lindsay? I need help.”

A few seconds pass. Rook glances at John, and his thoughts are written across his face: he’s wondering if John had been lying, back at the jail, when he said that Minkler and Lindsay were fine. Rook opens his mouth again, and there’s a burst of static just when he's about to speak. Rook looks away, clearly relieved.

“Uh— Adelaide is bringing someone to you. I need you to treat her, no questions asked.”

More static. Rook looks distinctly uncomfortable now.

“It’s Faith.”

More static, this time barely a half-second long.

“I know,” Rook says. “Believe me, I understand. But she needs our help. She wants out of Eden’s Gate. Think about it— if she’s alive, she might be able to help you with your Angel cure.”

This time, the reply takes a solid minute. Maybe two. Rachel's shivering is getting worse, blood still seeping through her lace dress, staining Rook's clothes. 

“I get it, Lindsay, I really do. But I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. _Please_. She’ll die if you don’t help her.”

There’s nothing for a long, worrying moment. And then a short burst of static. Rook’s body relaxes in relief.

“Thank you. Until I get back with Whitehorse and the others, can you just… can you make sure nobody knows who she is? Cover her face or something when you bring her in. I don’t want a riot. Not until I'm around to calm things down.”

One last burst of static.

“Thank you. See you soon.”

Rook clips his radio back onto his belt, and if John squints into the distance he can see a distinctive, ugly helicopter heading straight for them. Faith’s started silently weeping again, into Rook’s shoulder. He strokes her arm in response, gently hushing her. How ridiculous. If anybody needs comforting here, it’s John. Those Angels were _horrible_. 

The ugly helicopter hovers for a moment, its rotors drowning out all other sound, before landing a couple metres away. The rotors continue for a moment as the pilot cuts off the engine, whipping dust and Bliss into the air, into John's eyes. Adelaide Drubman— matriarch of that awful Drubman clan— steps out of the helicopter, in a spectacularly hideous denim-and-pink ensemble. She looks surprised to see Rachel and all the Angel corpses and her eyes rake disapprovingly over John, covered in blood and brains, still clutching his shovel like his life depends on it. Which it might.

“This ain’t _quite_ what I imagined when you said you needed medical attention,” she says, raising one eyebrow. She doesn’t sound angry, though. She sounds playful. Flirtatious. She taps her long pink claws against her crossed forearms as she waits for an answer.

“To be fair, I didn’t specify who needed the medical attention,” Rook says. “Look, I know this looks bad, but—“

“Hon, I'll admit I ain't happy about this, but I know you hate all this killing as much as I hate these Peggie shitbags,” Adelaide replies, glancing pointedly at Rachel and John. “I guess you want me to take her to the jail? Mm, I can’t complain about that. That Doctor Lindsay sure is a cutie pie.” She winks at Rook. “You’d make a good pair, you know that?”

No, they really wouldn’t, John thinks. Rook would pair well with someone with a backbone and a personality. Not a meek, pitiful _doormat_ like Charles Lindsay.

“ _Not_ the time, Addie,” Rook groans, but his face does flush pink. He leads Rachel to the passenger seat of Adelaide’s chopper, helps her get strapped in. “But yes. To the jail, please. They’ll be expecting you. Just make sure you radio Lindsay and wait for him to come and meet you before you try to bring her inside, okay?”

“Sure thing, hon,” Adelaide ruffles Rook’s hair before she heads back to the pilot’s seat. She glances up, at John, and then back to Rook. “Seems like your friend is behaving himself pretty well. You just remember what I told you earlier, hmm?”

It’s probably something along the lines of “don’t turn around or John’s going to have a knife in your back”. Deputy Rook groans again.

“Good _bye_ , Addie,” Rook says, pointedly, though not unkindly.

“See you later, sweetheart!” Adelaide calls, and she starts the engine, whipping debris into the air again. Rook waves goodbye, and Rachel gives him a weak wave in response. Then they’re gone, the helicopter quickly rising as it heads southwest.

John wipes dust from his eyes, and looks at Rook.

“You ready to stop wasting our time?” he asks. That was the wrong thing to say, because although Rook starts walking, he also goes back to frowning.

“Saving your sister’s life is a waste of time?” Rook replies, and there’s something sharp in his voice.

“She’s not my sister,” John says, following Rook. “Anyway, that isn't what I meant. I was actually referring to the fact you dragged me over here in the first place. Why’d you come? We were so close to the entrance, but you wouldn’t listen to me when I tried to tell you not to leave.”

Of course, John has a pretty good idea of the answer he’ll get. Rook was clearly stuck in the Bliss. He probably saw Whitehorse, if not Burke as well. And it’s doubtful he even heard John’s protests. The point of the question isn’t to get an answer out of Rook. It’s to indirectly establish that John wants to save Rook’s friends, that underneath all the sniping he really does care, that he's human, that he wants to help Rook. Which isn’t _entirely_ a lie— John does like Whitehorse enough to want to help him. Burke is trash, though. He can die for all John cares. John is only helping Burke because he has to.

“I was in the Bliss. I saw Faith with Burke and Whitehorse,” Rook replies. They start crossing the awful, rickety bridge again, and John focuses on the far side, trying to ignore the swaying under his feet. “I didn’t hear you say anything until you grabbed my arm before the fight.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter now,” John says, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he reaches the other side of the bridge, gets his feet on solid ground again. “With Faith out of Eden’s Gate, that’s not going to happen again.”

“You must have some feelings about that,” Rook says, after a moment. “About her turning on Joseph like that, I mean. What about her soul? She’s not saved any more, is she?”

That’s true. Honestly, John isn’t sure what he thinks. But to say that would be to look weak and indecisive, and he can’t afford that right now. He needs to seem strong and thoughtful and _useful_.

“It’s true that she won’t be saved any more,” John says, slowly. They cross the Path, treading bloody petals deeper into the dirt, before coming to the rocky slope near Faith’s Gate. “And I’m not happy that she’s turned her back on Joseph like that. What she said— that he’ll hurt her— that’s not true. He’s a good man. He really wants the best for us— for all of us, not just Eden’s Gate.”

“She was _afraid_ , John,” Rook murmurs, and John shakes his head.

“Faith is a manipulator,” he says. “And she wanted to live more than she wanted salvation. I wonder if she was ever really saved at all.”

“What? Because of the thing with Tracey?” Rook asks. He stops walking when they get back to the flat plain with the vents, clearly unsure where to go, so John starts leading him to the stairs to the entrance.

“No, that wouldn’t have been a problem,” John says. “I mean that I wonder if she ever really believed, or if she was just looking for a place to belong. She had a hard life before she came to us, you know.”

John tries the door. It’s unlocked, thankfully, and John props it open with a large rock that seems to have been left on the walkway for that exact purpose. Rook follows him inside.

“From what I hear, so did you,” Rook says, as John leads them through winding corridors. John pauses every so often, to allow Rook to knock out the few production workers in the facility.

“Yes, I did,” John admits. He doesn’t really like talking about his life before Joseph: the Duncans and their endless abuse, his subsequent self-destructive cycle of sex and drugs and alcohol, and then more sex and more drugs and more and more and _more_. It had been a desperate and futile attempt to feel _something_ , anything at all that wasn’t hatred and disgust and disappointment, all aimed at himself. But of course, Joseph wrote that past into his Word, so that everybody knows that even the worst sinners can have a place with the Father in New Eden. That in turn means that John _has_ to talk about it. That he can’t just bury his old, weak self under the righteousness and virtue of his new self, the Baptist. Not like Rachel could bury herself under the guise of the Siren.

Rook doesn’t say anything. Instead, he sneaks up behind a heavily-armed Chosen and takes him out with a tight chokehold, slamming his head against the wall until he goes limp. Even after he rejoins John, he’s quiet. He clearly wants more information. Ugh.

“I don’t hide from my past,” John says, at long last, leading Rook into the distilling room. “I think that it’s important to embrace who I used to be. What I used to be. Faith used her position to hide her past sins. I use mine to— to showcase them. To prove that anybody can be saved, no matter who they are. No matter how awful their actions are.”

Rook hums thoughtfully.

“Makes sense,” he says, and then he gestures at the machinery around them. “These… do they power the Bliss production?”

“Kind of,” John replies. “They’re a part of the distilling process. Raw Bliss comes in over there, and then the final product comes out at this end. There’s a packing facility beneath us, but I don’t think we’ll need to hit that if we plant some explosives in here. If we destroy the machines here, that should set off the Bliss down there.”

“Okay,” Rook says. “Good to know.”

Rook doesn’t move to plant any explosives, though. Instead, he heads to the main production room through the opposite door.

“Aren’t you going to destroy this place?” John asks. “I thought that was the logical next step.”

“Why do we need to do that?” Rook asks. “Faith isn’t here any more, and we’re going to confront Joseph soon. All we need to do is halt their production and tell Joseph that she’s dead. Unless you want to carry _all_ those unconscious men out of the Gate…”

“Okay,” John says. This is good, if unexpected. Another Gate intact means more souls alive to survive the Collapse. Maybe Rook isn’t such a bloodthirsty monster after all. “If we want to halt the Bliss production, we should dismantle these machines after we hit the next room.”

“Sounds good,” Rook agrees, and he opens the door. And because things have been going far too smoothly up until now, there’s an immediate shout as he does so, a burst of gunfire following a split second later:

“Hey! Look out! The sinner is here!”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, uncomprehending, when it all began: this is gonna be nice and quick! like 8 chapters max!
> 
> me, foolishly, 11 chapters ago: um, this is the halfway point, i think????
> 
> me, wisely, now: time is meaningless. numbers are arbitrary. 
> 
> (welcome to part 2 of 3, of the hellish level that is Faith's Gate!)

Rook immediately presses himself against the doorframe, just out of direct sight of the guards in the next room, and John ducks behind a nearby crate, because one can never be too safe.

“There are a lot of guys in there,” Rook says, and John can _see_ the cogs turning in his head, his hand drifting down to the handgun on his right thigh.

Yes, John thinks. _Please_. He needs protection— he hasn’t come this far to be killed by a bunch of wannabe drug dealers with itchy trigger fingers. A shovel isn’t going to do much against an onslaught of bullets. Deputy Rook pauses, quickly peeks through the open door again, to more shouts and several bullets. He draws his rifle, reloads. He looks at John.

“Stay here,” Rook orders. 

Then he’s gone, leaving John crouched behind a crate, still clutching a bloody shovel. And then there’s more shouting, more gunfire, more _chaos_.

John peers around the corner of the crate: it looks like the all of the guards have their attention focused on Rook. Either they haven’t noticed John yet, or they’re ignoring him too. He doesn’t know which one is worse.

There’s a cry of pain from the other room, and John isn’t sure if it comes from a guard or from Deputy Rook. It doesn’t really matter either way: Rook is a terrifying force of nature, capable of assaulting even Jacob’s most heavily-fortified outposts, his armoury. He’ll win this fight, there’s no question about that. But he’s also hurt. Faith didn’t do much damage to him, her little knives failing to hit anywhere of importance, but they haven’t had time to take the knives out and treat him yet. He’s still high on Bliss, even if he’s no longer lost in it. There’s no way that isn’t affecting Rook somehow. Slowing his reactions, throwing off his aim. Small things that could mean the difference between life and death.

John sprints to the doorway, pressing himself against the same hiding spot Rook just left. There’s a guard right in front of him, crouched behind a piece of railing. John could probably take him out, help Rook without putting himself in harm’s way. Yes. John nods to himself. The only real danger here is that Rook may not be sufficiently grateful. Again.

John’s’s not _quite_ close enough to just hit the man, and he certainly doesn’t want to get caught in the crossfire, so he very quietly stands. He hefts the shovel up over his shoulder with one hand, aims carefully with his other, and throws it, taking a step forward as he does so, his momentum carrying the shovel further. John was on the javelin team back in high school, he knows how this works.

The shovel misses his target entirely, flying past his head. It decapitates another man, some forty degrees to the left and maybe five metres ahead of his actual target.

John hasn’t thrown a javelin in _years_ , to be fair.

The guard John had been aiming for whips around, aiming his gun up, and stops short when he sees John. He falters, confused, just long enough for Deputy Rook to get in a good shot, his skull bursting into jagged blood and bone.

John crouches, wrenching the man’s white-painted rifle from his still-warm hands. Then he takes aim at another guard nearby, this one attempting to flank Rook as he deals with a cluster of three near the main doors. A quick squeeze of the trigger, and he’s down. Never stood a chance.

John moves toward the closest valve. John is no engineer, but he knows enough about the factory setup to understand that these valves are a vital part of the Bliss production process. If they close the valves, they can disassemble and break most of the machinery, and there won’t be any new Bliss until after the Collapse. The machine parts are sourced from several different companies, all outside Hope County. Although there are spare parts around, they’re all stashed in random places, half of which Deputy Rook has already destroyed or taken by force.

John turns the first valve closed, and an alarm starts blaring, overlaid with a loud, robotic voice: “CENTRAL VALVE SYSTEM OVERLOADING”.

Shit. There’ll be reinforcements soon. John glances around: the next valve is a couple metres away. He crouches, running with his head ducked down, glancing up to check on Rook’s progress: the men at the main doors are gone, and Rook is scaling a ladder that runs up to the mezzanine level.

John turns the wheel of the next valve, ignoring the panicked shouting and gunshots surrounding him, and spots someone trying to climb up the ladder after Rook. He aims, squeezes the trigger, and the man falls off the ladder screaming, his knees utterly ruined.

The next-closest valve is either the one underneath the mezzanine or the one embedded in the rock wall at the far corner, back the way he came. John heads for the far corner: the valve under the mezzanine is at the end of a long, winding walkway, and John doesn’t particularly want to jump in Bliss-infused water. The shouting upstairs continues, but it looks like there’s no more men on the ground floor. Good. That makes it easy for John.

John runs, not bothering to crouch this time. The valve here turns a little less easily, but he gets it done. Then he moves toward the stairs leading up to the main entrance: the fourth valve is over there. The man who’d fallen off the ladder has stopped screaming. John stops for a moment to put a bullet in his head, just to make it quick. Then he continues.

John reaches the valve, significantly more out of breath than he’d ever willingly admit. He sets his stolen rifle on the floor and starts turning the wheel, his arms burning with effort more than they ought to. His normal gym and diet routine has fallen by the wayside in the past month or so, what with the Reaping and his house being stolen and then getting locked in a tiny cell for days if not weeks on end. It’s going to take _ages_ get back in shape. Ugh.

As the valve squeaks into position, the last echoes of panicked yelling and gunfire dissipate. There’s silence for a second, alarm and robotic voice notwithstanding.

“Coast is clear!” Deputy Rook’s voice rings through the air. Somehow, he sounds even more tired than he did before.

“I’m aware, Deputy,” John calls. There’s just one valve left, and John heads over, picking his way through the walkways. “Don’t touch the valves, I’m handling them.”

As John yanks at the wheel, there’s the tell-tale clanking noise of someone descending a metal ladder, and Deputy Rook appears again, disheveled and clearly in pain. He’s still got tiny knives embedded in his shoulder, his thigh, his bicep. It looks like one was dislodged from his forearm, which is slowly dripping blood. They need to wrap this up quickly. Rook is a frankly terrifying force of nature, but he’s also only human. And John very much needs Deputy Rook alive.

“Ready to hit the other room?” Rook asks. He’s breathing too heavily.

“Yes. We won’t have much time, with all the alarms going off,” John says, dusting rust from the valve wheel from his hands. He points at a yellow box on the floor nearby. “Grab that toolbox, and we’ll get started.”

Rook nods, and John bends to pick up his rifle.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Rook asks, sharply. “You were doing just fine with the shovel I gave you.”

“I _was_ doing fine, but I’m doing _better_ with a gun,” John replies. “I just spent the last five minutes dealing with these valves and shooting people who were trying to sneak up on you. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

The confusion on Rook’s face makes it clear: he hadn’t noticed that at all. Great. All of John’s hard work has been for nothing. He's half-tempted to start ranting, to lecture Rook, to force a 'thank you' from those chapped lips. He doesn't, though. It’s not worth arguing. Not right now. After they get back to the jail, John can complain as much as he wants. But before that, he has to make sure that he and Rook get out of this Bliss-infused hellhole with both Burke and Whitehorse in one piece.

“Let’s just go,” John mutters. He leaves the rifle on the floor and starts making his way along the walkways again. He finds his shovel along the way and picks it up. There’s sticky blood coating the metal, and it’s all slicked along the handle too. Gross.

Rook doesn’t say anything more until they get to the distillation room.

“Where should we start?”

That’s a good question. Honestly, John doesn’t know a lot about these machines. His knowledge about engineering and mechanics is pretty much limited to ordering someone else to take care of Affirmation. Okay, he knows enough to source the parts that his men tell him that they need, in whatever quantities they insist upon. He doesn’t _actually_ do any of the tinkering or the fixing himself. He’s seen the blueprints of Faith’s machines, understands the basic concepts behind them, but that doesn’t really translate into knowing what to do. Still. He has to at least _look_ as though he does. Fake it ’til you make it, or something.

John points at the nearest machine.

“Get that open,” he says, flicking the power lever into the ‘off’ position.

Rook does, impressively quickly. They let the pre-Bliss concoction inside pour out onto the metal floor before John reaches in, yanking out random pieces of metal and plastic. There are a couple parts he recognises, having had more difficulty finding them for his men, and he deposits them in Rook’s gloved hands.

“Get rid of these,” he says, and Rook nods again. While the Deputy is gone— headed to the main factory room, presumably planning to throw the pieces into Bliss barrels or into the murky waste-water there— John picks up his shovel, smashing it against the power lever until it snaps off entirely. John kicks it into a distant corner, and for good measure smashes the control panel too.

Destroying one machine might not be enough. It depends how long Rook is planning to wait before confronting Joseph. They’d better go for at least one more, too.

John skips the middle machine entirely, manages to get the furthest machine opened by the time he starts hearing gunshots. Maybe they should have gone to the control room first, started screwing with the doors to slow Faith’s men down.

Oh well. It’s too late now. Rook will be fine.

John coughs on the fumes as the Bliss mixture inside the machine sloshes out onto the floor. He blindly starts stabbing the internal mechanisms with his shovel, hoping to damage the more delicate parts, if not jam it completely. The sparkles in his vision are getting worse, and it’s harder to co-ordinate his limbs. That’s not a good sign.

John smashes at the power lever and the control panel wildly, seeing sparks that might be imaginary, hearing something that isn't his shovel snap, and staggers back toward the factory door. There’s a sharp cry, and another burst of gunfire, and then nothing more. Just silence, save the alarm, and heavy breathing.

That’s not good.

“Deputy,” John calls as he re-enters the main factory, shovel clutched tightly in his fists. He doesn’t see Rook right away. “You’d better not be slacking in here.”

“I’m not,” Deputy Rook replies, sounding strained. A hand appears on a railing further into the room, and Rook pushes himself up, off the floor, into view.

“I finished the machines,” John says, jogging over to where Rook’s standing, head bowed, back to John, leaving heavily on said railing. “No more Bliss for now. We should go to the control room, and then we can get your friends out of here.”

“Good plan,” Rook replies. He straightens up as John approaches, turns to face him with his mouth stretched into a grimace. “Let’s go.”

John’s eyes are drawn down to the bloody patch on Rook’s right thigh. There are two holes in the denim, blood oozing unpleasantly through the fabric. That definitely hadn’t been there two minutes ago, when they were in the distilling room.

“Are you all right?” John asks, and immediately wants to slap himself. What a stupid question. Obviously he isn't. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah,” Rook replies, and a pained half-smile graces his lips. “’Tis but a scratch.” He pauses. “Let’s hurry, though.”

No arguments there.

John nods, and leads the way to the control room.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised while writing this that in-game it’s night when Faith retakes the prison. I don’t want to edit the last… idk, five or six chapters to reflect that. So here it happened midday/early afternoon (because John spent lunch time cleaning the showers), and it’s only just evening by the time this chapter ends.
> 
> Welcome to the final part of Faith's Gate. God, this was a weird level to write in reverse.

 Fortunately, the control room isn’t far away. Rook is limping, but he keeps pace, walking faster than John is strictly comfortable with. There’s a winding corridor doubling as a storage room and a couple of heavy doors, and then they’re there.

John heads to the main console immediately. The camera screens are showing pretty much what he expected: most of Faith’s men have been stationed at locations outside the Gate, and those that were still around are frantically working in the lower factory levels to shut off the Bliss production. By screwing up the final processing stage and the pressure management system, John and Rook have bought themselves a fair amount of time. There are a couple of Angels wandering the lowermost levels, but nothing that they won’t be able to handle.

John starts searching the computer for the cell door mechanisms. If he remembers right, Faith’s Gate has a weird layout even compared to Jacob’s Armoury. The holding cells line the chapel, at the request of the second or third Faith, in order to aid the sinners’ conversion. John doubts that’s going to work on a man so strong-willed as Earl Whitehorse. Burke, maybe. Every single folder name and filename annoyingly contains some form of smiley face or heart shape. Even in the secure depths of her bunker, Rachel couldn’t lift her cutesy Faith persona. He finds what he needs under the heading ‘chapel doors <3’.

“How did she get all the grass in here?” Rook asks. John glances up. Rook’s hovering uncertainly in the middle of the room, looking worried. John looks at the floor. It’s the same plain metal as the rest of the bunker. There are no plants in this room, save a sad little cactus on one of the desks. Rook hallucinating is definitely not ideal, but considering the amount of Bliss they’ve been exposed to… it was bound to happen eventually.

“It’s not real,” John says. He taps in the password, and the chapel cell doors slide open on the camera screens. He stands. “Come on.”

Rook follows him, the Bliss obviously starting to screw with his brain again.

“So, what, you paid for astroturf in here?”

“No, it’s the Bliss. There’s nothing there,” John replies. They descend a nearby staircase, entering the chapel. Rook lets out a low whistle of awe.

“I guess none of that is real either?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “The sunshine and the trees?”

John looks around. The chapel is small, maybe sixty or so chairs arranges in front of a choir screen before the pulpit. There are hundreds of tiny candles on racks lining the room, several boxes of Books of Joseph, and a portrait of Joseph above the pulpit. Garlands of plastic flowers wind around the railings on the staircase, as well as the posts of the choir screen. Otherwise, it’s exactly the same as all the other rooms in this place: beige walls and ceiling, metal floors, a distinct smell of Bliss and damp in the air. No plants, and definitely no sunshine.

“You’re right, it’s not,” John replies. He glances at Rook’s injured thigh again. The bleeding isn’t too bad, and Rook’s still on his feet, but… well, the sooner they get back to the jail, the better.

“Huh,” Rook says, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. Then he shifts back into work mode, focuses on the task at hand. “Sheriff? You here?”

Rook limps over to the open cell door. John follows, keeping a careful distance. God knows how much Burke remembers from Faith’s takeover, and Whitehorse might not realise that John had nothing to do with that mess. John can’t see much from here, but there’s a noose dangling ominously in the corner, a wooden chair next to it. What exactly had Faith been planning? He has a sinking feeling that he already knows.

“Rookie?” Whitehorse asks, obviously relieved at the sound of their voices. He’s kneeling over Burke, who’s half-comatose. “Give me a hand, would you?”

Rook limps over immediately, and Whitehorse’s face falls at the sight of him.

“What happened to you, Rook?” Whitehorse asks, reaching out a hand to stop Rook attempting to pick up Burke as soon as he’s within arm’s reach.

“Faith,” Rook replies. “And her men.”

“That looks bad,” Whitehorse says. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll carry him.”

Bullshit. Whitehorse is so Blissed-out, he’s having trouble keeping his balance. He pretty much doesn’t have pupils any more.

“I’ll help,” John says. Not because he wants to help Burke, obviously. But Whitehorse is an old, drugged-up man, and Rook needs to stop trying to do everything before he falls over. And maybe this will earn John some brownie points. So he sets down his shovel and ducks forward before Rook can stop him, slinging one of Burke’s arms around his shoulders. He nods at Whitehorse, who looks very surprised to see him.

“You’re not…?” Whitehorse begins, before stopping himself. He shakes his head, and gives John an encouraging smile instead. If he weren’t so Blissed, he’d probably be protesting more. “Come on. One, two, three…”

Between the two of them, Burke isn’t that heavy. He’s heavier than he looks, but John can manage. John takes most of the weight, Burke leaning heavily on him with Whitehorse steadying them both.

“The exit is down those stairs,” John says. “I saw Angels on the screens earlier, so be careful. Might want to take the shovel.”

It’s not that John thinks he’s going to get shot, not intentionally anyway. But Rook is hallucinating, and these are very close quarters, and John doesn’t want to get killed by a ricochet before he can get back to Joseph. And if Whitehorse or Burke get hurt on the way back to the jail, that’ll reflect badly on him. It’s not that he cares about any of them. It’s just that it’ll be so much easier to convert Rook if he’s in a good mood, if he hasn’t just accidentally killed his allies.

Rook seems to be thinking something similar. Enclosed space, hallucinations, possible risk of hurting allies. Either that, or it's the Bliss making him more liable to suggestion. He nods, flicking the safety on as he re-holsters his rifle, and he picks up the shovel John left on the floor nearby.

“I was running low on ammo anyway,” Rook says. And then he leads the way, guided by John’s helpful directions. Burke moves slowly, foot-dragging steps that help as much as they hinder. But they’re moving. It’s progress.

There are a number of Angels downstairs, but they’re easily dispatched. Still, it’s hard not to worry about Rook: his breathing is too heavy considering the effort Angel-killing takes, and the muscles in his arms are too tense when he lowers his weapon, his limbs trembling.

“That door leads outside,” John says, pointing to the one that should lead to the main gate. Rook nods, though his gaze remains fixed on a point in the middle of the room for a moment.

“I guess Joseph isn’t here either,” Rook says, and John isn’t sure if he’d prefer if that were the case or not. On one hand, if Joseph were here, he could deliver unto the Father the Project’s most hateful enemies. And maybe that would be enough to secure his pardon. Or maybe the Father would look at the blood and brains splattered all over John’s skin and hair and clothes, unwilling to pardon a man who had killed the faithful.

John bites his lip. When he gets back to Joseph, he’ll have to come clean about that eventually. His Atonement is going to be _excruciating_. It'll be so much worse than the last time.

“No, he’s not,” John replies, and Rook leads the way again.

Around a corner, down a short flight of stairs, and then they’re at the titular Faith’s Gate. Which is locked, if the way Rook pounds at the metal is any indication.

“John, it’s not _opening_ ,” Rook says, the Bliss doing wonders for his ability to state the obvious.

“My key will unlock it,” John says, and Rook nods, immediately bending over to push the key around his neck into the lock. It’s a nice view. Rook quickly straightens again, pushing one half of the gate open, and John and Whitehorse follow him out into the open.

John inhales deeply, hoping that the chemical smell of Bliss will dissipate quickly. The lightheadedness and the sparkles will take longer to go, but it’s a good start. He’s never been so thankful for the ‘bracing fresh air’ Jacob was always so fond of.

The sun is setting now, the temperature much cooler than it was when they entered the Gate.

“How’re we getting back to the jail?” Whitehorse asks. “You drive here?”

“We took a helicopter,” Rook says. “It’s at the top of the cliff.” He pauses, and looks back at John, eyes narrowed. “Huh.”

“Look, there’s a truck,” John points at an Eden’s Gate pickup truck parked not far away, on the opposite side of the road. “We take that, and we’ll be back at the jail in no time.”

“No arguments from me,” Whitehorse says, and he starts moving, giving John no choice but to follow. Rook looks at John a second longer, but makes his way to the truck too.

They deposit Burke in the pickup bed, and he doesn’t even argue, or show any sign of discomfort. He just lies, eyes half-open and Blissed, muttering inaudible words to himself.

“I’ll stay with him,” Whitehorse says. “Make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

“Thank you,” Rook replies. “I’ll drive, then.”

“No, you won’t,” John protests. “You’re hallucinating. I’m not. _I_ should drive.”

Rook opens his mouth to argue, but Whitehorse cuts in.

“That true, Rook? You hallucinating?”

Rook nods, shame-faced. That wasn’t what John intended, but he’s not dying because Rook swerved off-road to avoid an imaginary cougar or whatever.

“Kid, I hate to agree with a Seed, but you can’t drive us. I’ll drive, then.”

“Oh, please!” John exclaims. How dense _are_ these people? “Sheriff, how many butterflies can you see?”

“Uh…” Whitehorse blinks, and pauses for a moment, lips moving as his eyes flicker over imaginary shapes. “Five.”

“You can’t drive either!” John snaps. “The answer should be ‘none’! There are no butterflies, it’s all Bliss! Which, in case you forgot, Deputy, I am _immune_ to. I’m driving.”

Whitehorse sighs, and shrugs. Perhaps he considers the argument over, or not worth pursuing. More likely, it's because the Bliss makes people more pliant. More liable to suggestion.

“Just go with it, Rook. If he hasn’t killed us yet, he’ll get us to the jail just fine.”

At least _someone_ here has appreciation for John’s considerable skills and abilities. Even if he downplays it to driving ‘just fine’.

John gets in the driver’s seat. Fortunately the previous driver did just as they were supposed to and left the keys in the ignition. The Project’s lorries and the Herald’s personal vehicles have more security, but these cheap, painted pickup trucks are a communal investment, which means that all members of Eden’s Gate should be able to use them at the drop of a hat. So all of the Eden’s Gate pickup trucks have their keys kept in the ignition, or, pre-Reaping, in the glovebox. It’s honestly surprising that they had so few trucks stolen.

Rook climbs into the passenger seat, wincing as the knives still embedded in his back and shoulders scrape against the backrest. He leans forward, not bothering with a seatbelt.

“Go,” he says, bracing himself against the dashboard. John glances in the rearview mirror: Whitehorse waves from the bed of the truck. They’re ready.

John drives more carefully than he usually would. He doesn’t want to kill his cargo. He keeps his speed much lower than he’s accustomed to— a whole three miles under the speed limit. He smoothly avoids potholes and obstacles, despite the atrocious handling of these trucks. He keeps his eyes on the road the whole time, devotes his concentration fully to the task at hand. Normally, he’d have his cellphone in one hand, shooting text messages to Jacob or his lieutenants, and a joint or a cigar in the other. He doesn’t even say anything when Rook turns the radio onto the sinner’s channel. To be fair, that’s because they’re playing good music for once. Die Antwoord used to be his favourite, before Joseph decreed that John couldn't listen to sinner’s music any more.

They arrive at the jail much less quickly than John would have liked, but they’re all in one piece. Adelaide Drubman’s ugly helicopter is exactly where Rook’s had been earlier. John pulls up as close to the entrance as he can, considering all the burnt-out vehicles and bodies in the way.

Deputy Rook grunts as he clambers out of the passenger side, slamming the door with more force than necessary. He heads back, to the pickup bed, and John slips out of the driver’s door as quickly as he can, nearly getting his foot tangled in the seatbelt.

“Don’t even _think_ about it!” John snarls. He points at the jail. “Get those injuries looked at! I’ll help Whitehorse.”

Rook glares at John, then opens his mouth, glancing at Whitehorse for help.

“Don’t look at me like that, son,” Whitehorse replies. “I’m with Mister Seed on this one. You need help more than we do.”

Rook rolls his eyes, clearly annoyed, but he doesn’t try to argue any more. Rook just scowls and starts limping back to the jail. Thank God for Bliss-induced co-operation.

John helps Whitehorse drag Burke out of the pickup bed. Burke seems a little more lucid now, wrapping his arms around their shoulders of his own volition, his footsteps much less of a hindrance than earlier.

Whitehorse opens the outer door, and when they reach the building entrance, someone else that open for the three of them, a Resistance member with an unhappy look on her face. She’s the one who runs the weapons shop— and if that’s not a sign of how richly deserved the Collapse is, John isn’t sure what else could be. People seeking profit even as their home burns around them. Whitehorse thanks her, and she closes the door behind them.

There’s a muffled shouting noise, and it gets louder as they approach the infirmary. Whitehorse opens the door, and the sound isn’t muffled any more. It’s Tracey, clutching at Rook’s bloody t-shirt, completely distraught.

“What were you _thinking_ , Rook? _Her_ , of all people?'


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again i am a sleep deprived mess so here is a slightly shorter chapter than usual. we will be seeing our other guns for hire real soon though! (especially everybody's favourite pyromaniac)

Deputy Rook clearly has no idea how to respond.

Whitehorse points to a nearby bed, and John helps him deposit Burke on it. Burke curls in on himself, muttering inaudibly again, and Whitehorse sits in the chair at his bedside, a soothing hand on Burke’s shoulder as he watches the stand-off, clearly ready to jump— well, stagger— in if necessary. Adelaide Drubman lounges on one of the chairs against the wall, filing her nails as if unconcerned. She’s not, though— she’s got one eye fixed on Rook and Tracey her posture tense. Doctor Lindsay’s hurrying over to them, a tray of medical supplies clutched in freshly-gloved hands.

“She was _frightened_ , Tracey,” Rook says, and his tone is pleading. “I couldn’t—“

“Faith is a liar and a manipulator!” Tracey shouts, interrupting him, and clearly that’s not something she does very often: Rook looks startled, as do the other people in the room. Even Minkler, grey-faced and barely awake, looks worried. “Do you have any idea how many people she killed? How many lives she’s ruined? And now you’re letting her off the hook? What, do you have a hard-on for sociopathic monsters? Is that it?”

“Faith is going to answer for her crimes,” Rook says, his voice hard. “Just like anybody else: in a court of law. Same for John. Same for Joseph. I won’t let them get away with any of this.”

“Or you could put a bullet in her head,” Tracey hisses. “Just like Jacob.”

Rook’s face _falls_ at that, and Doctor Lindsay takes that as his cue to jump in and defuse the situation, at least for now.

“We can talk about this later,” Lindsay says, and he gently steers Rook toward one of the few remaining empty beds. “After I’ve stopped Deputy Rook from bleeding out.”

Tracey scowls, but she lowers her hand and leaves the room with no further argument.

John takes a seat near Adelaide, who gives him a lascivious wink. He ignores her, focusing instead on keeping an eye on Lindsay as he examines Rook. He checks Rook’s bleeding thigh and forearm first: the forearm gets cleaned and dressed quickly. Then Lindsay moves onto the knife still embedded in his thigh. He produces a pair of scissors, and, with difficulty, cuts away some of the denim before he takes the knife out. He tries to rip the denim the rest of the way, but fails, settles for pushing part of the fabric out of the way while he works. Then he tackles the gunshot wounds.

“Looks like the bullets are still in there. I’m guessing this was a ricochet?” Lindsay asks, glancing up for confirmation. At Rook’s nod, he looks thoughtful. “Hm. You mind taking your jeans off? I think I need better scissors if I’m going to cut through that.”

Rook obeys, standing and unbuckling his belt, letting the fabric fall to the floor before sitting down again. Adelaide hums appreciatively at the sight— Deputy Rook is definitely well-built, his legs are all lean, dense muscle underneath that shapeless denim.

Lindsay gets to work right away, his eyes focused on the task at hand. He works quickly and methodically, tying a tourniquet around Rook’s leg before tackling each bullet separately. He staunches the bleeding quickly, cleaning and stitching each wound with gentle efficiency. It’s obviously painful, though. Rook’s lips are pressed together so tightly they can’t be seen anymore, his jaw is clenched, brows deeply furrowed, his knuckles white. He doesn’t make much sound, though. A pained grunt here and there, a long hiss when Lindsay slowly extracts the bullets.

Eventually, it’s done, and Lindsay dresses the bullet wounds. Then it’s time to tackle the other knives. The one in Rook’s left bicep is pretty straightforward: it’s embedded only in his skin, and it’s easy for Lindsay to extract the knife, cleaning and stitching and dressing the cut. The others are more difficult. The knives are embedded in Rook through his t-shirt.

“I hope you weren’t very attached to this,” Lindsay says. “I think I’m going to have to cut it off. I really don’t want to take all the knives out at once— you’ve already lost more blood than I’d like.”

“Do whatever you need,” Rook replies, and that’s that. Lindsay gets his shitty scissors out again, and starts cutting and tearing the fabric around Rook’s shoulders, freeing as much of the skin around the knife as he can before taking the knife out and treating the wound it leaves behind. And then he starts on the next knife, under Rook's shoulderblade, revealing more skin, and when that's finished Lindsay moves on to the final—

“Enjoying the show?” Adelaide whispers, way too close to John’s ear.

John yelps, and nearly falls off his chair. He regains his balance quickly, though his composure takes a split-second longer than he'd like.

Adelaide’s looking at him with a nasty grin on her face. She waggles her heavily drawn eyebrows suggestively.

“Mm, can’t say I blame you,” she adds, airily. She glances pointedly at Rook, her pink lips drawing back into a toothy grin. John suddenly understands why they call women like her 'cougars'. “That one’s on my ‘any hole’ list, too.”

John opens his mouth to fire back some kind of witty retort. But he can’t _quite_ think of anything, because his brain is still caught up with processing the fact that Adelaide Drubman has an ‘any hole’ list, and— did she just imply that _John_ is on it too? Should he be impressed at that?

A second passes. Then two. Then three, four, five— 

“John, were you injured at all?” Doctor Lindsay’s voice cuts through the air, saving John from having to think of an answer to Adelaide’s strange conversation starter.

“Only my dignity,” John replies, glancing back at Lindsay. Rook’s already re-buckling his jeans, the bloody remains of his shirt thrown in a nearby trash can. There’s a light sheen of sweat covering his skin, streaks of dirt and blood stark against the places Doctor Lindsay so painstakingly cleaned. Every muscle is tense, taut with pain and exhaustion.

“Good,” Lindsay says, peeling off his bloody gloves. They join Rook’s shirt in the trash. “Glad to hear it. Whitehorse, you okay?”

“Just the Bliss,” comes the tired reply. “Same for Burke, ‘cept he’s got it a lot worse.”

Lindsay looks worried. He glances at John.

“Your sister… you said that he was controlling him somehow?”

“Through the Bliss,” John says. He hopes that nobody asks him how it works, because he doesn't really know. Something, Bliss, something, Will of God, something. “You don't need to worry, though. She won't be able to control him without Bliss nearby, and we don't have any here. Where is she now?”

“In the lab, asleep. I locked the door, to make sure nobody could get in and— well…” Lindsay trails off. “I did what you asked, but it’s only a matter of time, Rook. She can’t stay here.”

“I know, and she won’t,” Rook says. “It’s just a couple days, until we deal with Joseph. I promise.”

“I—“ Lindsay starts. He stops, looking pained, and then he starts again, sounding uncharacteristically firm. “I don’t want her here. After what she just did, we can’t trust her. She says she wants out of Eden's Gate, but how can we take anything she says at face value? How do we know she's not going to launch another assault on us? I can’t jeopardise my other patients’ safety. I can’t. I’m sorry. She has to go.”

Rook doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He nods his head, looking anywhere but at Lindsay.

“I understand,” he says. “I’ll figure something out.”

Lindsay breathes a sigh of relief. Clearly he'd been expecting more of an argument. 

"Good," he says. "You think you'll have something by morning?"

Rook is silent for a moment, clearly mulling over his options in his head. 

"Grace has a bunker," he says. "So does Sharky. If all else fails, there's the Whitetails or the Marina—"

"Oh, no, honey," Adelaide interrupts. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but there ain't no way I'm having that bitch as a guest. I'll take her wherever you need her to go, but she's not staying with me. And don't go putting her with Sharky, either. You know he's sweet on her. Or at least his dick is."

John rolls his eyes. He really didn't want to know that. It's obvious that Boshaw is a sex-deprived loser, and of _course_ John has long been aware that half the population of Hope County adores Faith (in body, at least, if not in mind). But still. Ugh. He leans back in his chair and files that little piece of trivia away for future reference. Boshaw doesn't have to know that Faith is still hung up on her ex-girlfriend, seven years after what John assumes was a messy breakup. 

"Okay," Rook says. He rubs his eyes, and looks even more miserable than usual. He sits back on the infirmary bed, starts unlacing his boots. "Well, there are options."

After that, nobody seems to have very much to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) yes, adelaide's 'any hole' list is real. according to the wiki, john is on it, and so are nick and jerome. 
> 
> 2) if you want to gush about far cry or whatever, i can be found on tumblr at either peltonea (where i post stuff about writing and my fic updates) or amistrio (my personal which is 99% memes and gay stuff).


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little weird, mostly John being introspective. But in the next chapter we'll be seeing the other GFH again! I've got that chapter about 40% written, and it'll be significantly longer than usual. :)

After a few moments, Rook takes out his handheld radio again, speaks softly into it as he carefully shifts on the bed, gingerly lying down. Doctor Lindsay finishes cleaning up, then starts scribbling on a notepad— makeshift doctor’s notes, John supposes. Whitehorse is still at Burke’s bedside, Adelaide is still filing her nails, and Minkler seems to be drifting back to sleep now that there’s no more arguing.

John lets his head rest against the wall behind him. He’s acutely aware of how his muscles ache and how his clothes are stiff with dried blood and bits of Angel brain. He knows that he probably smells disgusting, all Bliss and stale sweat and God alone knows what else. He knows that he probably should be feeling very hungry— Faith attacked just before John would’ve gotten to eat lunch— and very thirsty— he hasn’t drunk anything since Burke showed up at his cell— but he doesn’t, not really. Right now, he’s mostly exhausted, in a way he hasn’t been for a very long time. The sparkles at the edge of his vision are an unwelcome reminder of exactly why he feels this way: the Bliss.

Oh, the Bliss. Joseph won’t be happy about John and Rook shutting down the Bliss production at Faith’s Gate. But he’ll have been even more unhappy if they’d destroyed the Gate entirely.

A terrible thought occurs to John: there’s no way Joseph won’t have the security camera footage checked. He’ll see John leading Rook through the facility, helping to free Burke and Whitehorse. He’ll see John helping to shut down the Bliss, see him killing innocent believers. He’ll see John betraying his trust and his love, when he’s supposed to be a martyr.

Will saving just one soul really be enough to absolve John of _that_?

John shuts his eyes. He’ll definitely have to re-carve ‘sloth’ into his skin. That’s what ‘cowardice’ and ‘treason’ come under, right? That or ‘wrath’. Maybe ‘pride’, too, if Joseph is really angry. And John will need to do _something_ to atone for his betrayal: at the very least, he’ll have to help prepare and bury the corpses of the people he’s killed. He wouldn’t be surprised if Joseph asked him to go to the Eden’s Gate stashes and find all the spare parts needed to resume Bliss production, personally repairing the machines he broke. And after John’s second (or third, or— well, who’s counting, anyway?) Atonement, his sins will surely be the subject of Joseph’s sermons for weeks, if not months or _years_ to come.

What had John been thinking? He should have let Rook go to Faith’s Gate alone. Then he wouldn’t be in so much trouble. Rook would come back, just as he always does, maybe a little more beaten up, a little closer to death, but… No. No, that’s not right.

Rook would have been in a lot of trouble if John hadn’t been there. He’d have been eaten alive by those Angels, and even if he hadn’t and he’d still managed to send Rachel back here, there’s absolutely no way he could have taken Faith’s Gate alone. He’d have died, for sure. And then there really would have been no hope for John.

Joseph will definitely understand, John decides. He has to. John will grovel at the Father’s feet, weeping as he begs for forgiveness, and Joseph will acknowledge that John did the right thing— that this was his only real option. Joseph’s focus on the Deputy has only sharpened since Jacob’s death, and with John and Faith’s apparent demises, John can only imagine that Joseph will throw himself ever-deeper into his personal mission of making sure that Deputy Rook is saved.

If the Father couldn’t save Jacob and the Father couldn’t save Faith, then He will surely stop at nothing to save the man who doomed them all: the harbinger of the Collapse. So everything is fine. John still has a chance.

Adelaide tuts, quietly, jerking John back into reality. He cracks his eyes open and looks at her. The infirmary is silent again.

“Poor thing,” she whispers, eyes fixed on where Rook is lying. His eyes are closed now, radio still clutched in his hand. She looks at John. “Go get him a blanket, would you, sweetheart? He deserves a good night’s rest.”

“What?” John asks, and Adelaide instantly has a cool hand pressed against his mouth.

“Quietly,” she hisses, brows furrowing in motherly disapproval.

John glares at her, raising one hand to her wrist to uncover his mouth. Why is that _John’s_ job? Before John can ask, Whitehorse is already on his way over, clutching a large woollen blanket. He quickly unfurls it, covers Rook with it, and gently takes the handheld radio out of Rook’s relaxed fingers, putting it on the dresser nearby.

“Night, Rookie,” Whitehorse murmurs, and then he looks at Adelaide and John. He comes closer. “Either of you eaten yet?”

John shakes his head, while Addie winks, uncovering John’s mouth.

“Had my fill of sausage earlier, if you catch my drift,” she says. Then she grins at John. “Have to say, I am in the mood for a quick snack...”

Was that a double entendre? A serious statement of fact? An invitation? John isn’t entirely sure, so he looks to Whitehorse for help.

“I’ll see about getting us some food,” the Sheriff murmurs, and John forces himself to stand up, even though he’s exhausted. If he has to stay here with Adelaide, he’s going to _lose_ it. She’s the worst— full of lust and pride and all kinds of debauchery he doesn’t want rubbing off on him.

“Can I have some new clothes? And maybe a shower?” he asks quietly. He feels disgusting, can feel the dirt embedded in his skin and his hair. Oh, he wants to feel clean again so _badly_ …

“Clothes for sure, but the shower’s gonna have to wait,” Whitehorse whispers. “Come on.”

John nods, following Whitehorse out of the infirmary. As he leaves, he catches sight of Adelaide heading to the office in the back, where Doctor Lindsay is barely visible through the window. Better him dealing with Adelaide than John.

Whitehorse leads them through the strategy centre. There are a few people there, nursing various injuries. One woman is busy cleaning a pile of guns, another is taking stock of ammunition and throwable weaponry. The corpses are all gone, and there’s a man busy mopping all the dried blood and viscera from the floor. Whitehorse heads over to the corridor where the showers are, and opens the cupboard where all the clean laundry is apparently kept, fishing random garments out of the boxes there, shoving them in John’s arms.

“Go get changed,” Whitehorse says, depositing a pair of socks on John’s pile of clothes. “I’ll get us something to eat. Meet me in the strategy centre when you’re done.”

John nods and heads back up to his cell. He gets as clean as he can with the shitty tools he has at his disposal: a tiny metal sink that only spouts cold water, the sad remains of the soap he was given when he arrived, a patchy washcloth, and a too-soft toothbrush.

When he’s done, he dresses in the clothes Whitehorse gave him, which includes a cheap khaki jacket and a pair of worn brown cargo pants. He glances at his shoes, covered in blood and mud. Is it worth trying to salvage them? Honestly, probably not. He’ll try later, but they’re probably ruined beyond repair. He’ll have to throw them away when he gets his life back.

As promised, Whitehorse is in the strategy centre when John arrives, already sitting at one of the smaller tables. There’s a steaming bowl of stew and a cup of UHT orange juice for each of them.

“Thank you,” John says, and he digs in. The stew is, as expected, terrible. Canned potatoes and sweetcorn and carrots, with chunks of spam and a thick, underseasoned broth. It’s exactly the type of shit Jacob used to like. Still, it’s food, and even though John isn’t all that hungry, he knows he needs to eat. So he does, and he doesn’t complain, and he doesn’t interrupt Whitehorse when he starts speaking.

“You coulda really screwed us over back there,” Whitehorse says. “Coulda driven us over to your brother instead of taking us to safety. Coulda sabotaged Rook’s rescue.” He pauses. “Tell me, was it your idea to save your sister?”

John shakes his head.

“Rook did that on his own,” he says. “He spared her before I could intervene.”

It’s not exactly a lie. John would have at least asked Rook to avoid killing her if it had looked like she was going to die. He wouldn’t have put himself in harm’s way, though. Not like he would have if she'd been Jacob. He’s far too attached to living, thank you.

Whitehorse nods, and his mouth tightens.

“I thought so,” he says, sounding unhappy. “That sister of yours is a monster, John. Even more so than the rest of you Seeds.”

John’s lip curls. Oh, of _course_. Just when he’d thought he was finally getting somewhere. All his hard work, his co-operation and niceness and heroic actions… all for nothing. Whitehorse mentally painted John as a monster, likely before they even met face-to-face, and he's clearly never bothered to revisit that— that _prejudice_.

John shoves the last spoonful of stew into his mouth, takes a final swig of acidic juice, and stands up. Whitehorse looks up in surprise, spoon halfway to his mouth.

“I’m going to bed,” he says, and he does. He ignores Whitehorse's surprised "John?", and he goes up to his cell and throws himself on his bunk and glares at the wall until sleep takes him, seething with rage and frustration every damned second.

John doesn’t have to wait long: the fog that’s been slowing his brain rapidly engulfs what’s left of John’s faculties. He’s so exhausted, he doesn’t even dream.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was looking through the wikia to check the route of the path, because that’s what i want to do next in my playthrough, but ended up discovering that I completely misheard Dr Sarah Parker’s name. It’s Dr. Sarah PERKINS. my ‘edit later’ list is getting REALLY long… *internal screaming* (God, why did I think her name was Parker for so long????) 
> 
> i’m super tired and i have no idea if this chapter is any good, but here you go anyway. hope you enjoy :) More John roasting coming in the next couple chapters.

Someone wakes John, roughly shaking him by the shoulder.

“Get up. We’re leaving in half an hour,” a familiar, masculine voice cuts through the fog of sleep.

John forces his eyes open, props himself up on a half-numb arm.

“What?” he croaks, squinting at the person leaning over him. Deputy Rook swims into focus, and it takes a second to recognise him because he doesn’t look like shit. He’s clean and looks almost well-rested, the Bliss gone from his brown eyes, and he’s combed his hair for once.

“We’re going to Holland Valley,” Rook says. “Pack your toothbrush. Don’t forget your disguise.”

Then Rook is gone, leaving an empty backpack and a tin mug of coffee behind. John stretches, every muscle stiff from the exertion of the day before. He squints at his watch: six-thirty AM. Then he sips cautiously at the coffee. It’s hot, which is surprising. It tastes awful, which is not.

John brushes his teeth, wrapping it in his washcloth before putting it in one of the side pockets of the backpack. It’s a cheap, ugly thing, but John doesn’t have any better options. There’s not much else for him to pack. His Book of Joseph and his Bible, of course. His sketchbook and pencils. A water bottle. John carefully folds and rolls his coat, so it won’t crease too much, and packs that too. Then he dons his hat and gloves and scarf, and he leaves.

He won’t miss this cell, not one bit.

Whitehorse is in the strategy centre when John gets there, nursing a coffee, and Burke’s sitting in a chair beside him, looking utterly miserable. They seem somehow better and worse than they did last night: Whitehorse isn’t Blissed any more, but he looks older and more exhausted than ever. Burke seems to have regained his faculties, but he looks even worse than Whitehorse, his unfocused gaze reminiscent of someone about a hair’s breadth away from a nervous breakdown.

“Rookie already went out to the truck,” Whitehorse says, when he spots John. “He’s got a couple more things to sort out before we head on out. You can wait with us if you’d like.”

John looks at him, and part of him wants to do just that. Spend ten or twenty minutes in comforting, familial company. But he remembers what Whitehorse let slip the previous night. The bitter words that fell from his lips: “That sister of yours is a monster, John. Even more so than the rest of you Seeds.” 

“No,” John says, curtly, and he heads to the infirmary instead. He’ll greet Rachel and Lindsay, make sure Minkler hasn’t died in the last however-many-hours.

Of course, John doesn’t actually make it to the infirmary. He runs into Tracey in the entrance hall, where she’s being lectured by Adelaide.

“All I’m sayin’ is that the way to a girl’s heart is through her clitoris,” Adelaide says, far too loudly, without any hint of shame. “You just keep that in mind, honey.”

Tracey looks just as unhappy at Adelaide’s advice as John feels at hearing it, her mouth downturned and eyebrows drawn low, a deep pink colouring her cheeks. She looks up, spotting John, and for once looks mildly positive at the sight of him.

“Hey, John. You ready to head out?” Tracey asks, stepping smoothly past Adelaide, who rolls her eyes exaggeratedly and saunters into the infirmary.

“As ready as I can be,” John replies.

“Great,” Tracey says, and she takes John by the elbow, steering him outside, into the parking lot, where Deputy Rook is loading the Eden’s Gate pickup from yesterday with boxes. His neon car is sitting nearby, clean and well-polished, contrasting hideously with the pleasant golden light of the dawn. Rook looks up when he hears their footsteps. He picks up the final item, a heavy-looking canvas bag, and places it gently in the truck bed.

“Is it seven already?” Rook asks. He takes the tarp that’s half-strapped to the bed, starts securing it over the boxes.

“Near enough,” Tracey says. “Whitehorse and Burke are gonna come soon.”

“I’m pretty much done here,” Rook says. He tightens the last strap and steps back, wiping the dust off his hands on the new pair of jeans he’s wearing. These ones are better than the last pair, more shapely. He’s got a plaid shirt on now, red and black. “You can head out if you’d like. Grace is gonna meet us at 8-Bit, but she’ll be back at the bunker before noon.”

“I’m going to wait a while,” Tracey replies. “Got a couple things left to take care of before I leave this place in the hands of Charles and Virgil.”

“Okay,” Rook says. He looks at John. “You did good yesterday. I’m gonna leave the cuffs off today, provided this good behaviour continues. We have a deal?”

“Yes,” John says, because it’s not like he can say ‘no’. Although to be honest, even if he could refuse, he wouldn’t. Those cuffs _chafe_.

“Great,” Rook says. “You’re in the front, with me. Ground rules are no torture, no religious talk, and definitely no murder.”

John rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t argue.

Deputy Rook and Tracey chat about trivial matters— Minkler looks like he’s going to pull through just fine, Nick Rye is getting real worried ‘cause Kim is apparently due any day now, someone called Wheaty has been reunited with more records— until Whitehorse and Burke emerge from the jail. Burke’s visibly swaying on his feet, but he’s got a gritted, proud look on his face. John is half-tempted to ask if he needs help, just to piss him off.

“Burke, Sheriff, you’re in the back,” Rook says, and it’s telling that although Burke gets a nasty look on his face, he doesn’t argue with the man who’s his subordinate by, like, a hundred levels.

Rook waves off Tracey, who returns to the jail, and drives in much the same way as he did when they were headed to the Whitetails, back when John was still horribly concussed. Slow, careful, sticking to road laws that definitely shouldn’t apply during the apocalypse. He doesn’t argue when John flicks on the radio, though he does clear his throat when John pauses on the Eden’s Gate channel, the energetic rhythm of John’s personal hymn pounding through the tinny little speakers of the car.

" _Come brothers and come sisters, come weary and come strong,_ " the singer, Mabel, croons.

“But it’s my song,” John protests. A large hand lands on his shoulder, grips tightly.

“Something _else_ ,” Burke snarls, and John sighs, twisting the dial until Mabel’s voice fades into static, and a different one comes through.

A man. Solemn. But not Joseph.

“ _—warn you not to continue Bliss production, unless you want to end up like your Herald. I’ve taken the liberty of laying her to rest, in the same place as all the others. In the Angel’s mass grave at the Horned Serpent’s Cave._ ”

There’s a small burst of static, a pause.

“We don’t need to listen to this,” Rook says, awkwardly, at the same time the voice starts speaking again, and John realises— it’s _him_ on the radio. Still, John obeys and turns the dial further. He’ll listen to the whole thing later, when he’s back at his bunker. The faithful serving Joseph will definitely record this message, and any others the Resistance have broadcast since John’s capture.

“ _This is Deputy Rook of the Hope County Sheriff’s Department—_ “ is all John hears before the static overtakes Rook’s voice, and then they’re on the Sinner’s channel: they’re playing Luke Bryan. Not that it matters, because within two minutes, Rook is pulling over near a building John hasn’t seen used in years: the old 8-Bit Pizza Bar. It’s abandoned, weeds and boarded-up windows everywhere.

“Behave yourself,” Rook says. Then he’s out of the car, slamming the door behind him. John scrambles to follow. Rook opens the front door, strides inside like the building isn’t about to fall apart, John close behind.

The interior of 8-Bit is a hell of a lot more inviting than the exterior. Although there’s a broken table in the corner, and an overwhelming smell of dust and mildew, the bar is actually in a pretty good state of repair, considering John sent this place under nearly a decade ago. The lights are all working, the sinner’s station quiet in the background. The furniture stacked along the walls seems worn, but perfectly functional. It might even count as nice-ish, if it weren’t for the fact that half of Deputy Rook’s terrible friends are sitting in the bar, some chatting to each other, some maintaining their weapons, and in the case of Drubman Jr, dancing to the Taylor Swift song playing on the radio.

“Hey, Dep,” Nick Rye, the bastard, greets from a couple steps that lead up to a raised dining area. It’s hard to tell with the mirrored aviators he always wears, but it looks like he starts frowning when he spots John.

“Good to see you,” Rook replies. “How’s Kim doing? I heard she’s due soon.”

“Oh, she’s near ‘nough ready to pop,” Nick replies, attention back on Rook, and then he just keeps _going_ , listing all his unfounded concerns and petty worries as that mangy little dog that follows Rook everywhere bounds in, yapping excitedly at Rook’s feet as he bends down to pet it.

John scans the room: there’s an unoccupied chair near the broken table by the entrance, so he heads over there. From that position, he can see more or less everything in the bar, including the kitchen, and he can see out of the front window through a gap in the boards, if he just turns his head slightly. It’s as good a place as any to sit, especially considering that there’s nobody in that corner.

Whitehorse enters a moment after John settles himself, Burke leaning on his shoulder. Burke deposits himself next to Grace Armstrong, who’s cleaning her rifle near the bar, and Whitehorse fetches him a glass of water before going over to make small talk with the Drubman cousins.

Apparently they’re going to be here a while.

“Hudson and Pratt on their way?” Rook asks to the room at large. He’s still petting the dog— what was it called? Boomer?— and it’s licking his face now, tail wagging so fast John can barely see it.

“They called about five minutes ago to say they just left Fall’s End. I’d give it about fifteen minutes ’til they arrive,” Grace Armstrong replies.

“Good,” Rook replies. “We’ll start when they get here. Addie said she’ll come around half eight. Wants to avoid all the discussion and get right down to business, she said.”

John doesn’t bother to ask what kind of business Rook is talking about. He’ll find out soon enough. Instead, he takes his sketchbook and his tin of pencils out of his backpack, takes off his gloves and stuffs them in his jacket pocket, and settles back in his chair.

Ignoring the people, this room is okay. It would be better if it were properly remodelled and decorated by someone who hadn’t died in the 19th century, of course, but it’s got lots of strong lines, and the way the ceiling slopes and the warm light reflects off the woodwork isn’t aesthetically _unpleasing_.

The lines, then. That’s where he’ll start.

John sketches out the basic shapes— a rough triangle for the wooden beams, a couple blocky rectangles for the windows and the platform and doorway and the bar. He adds harsher lines where he wants to put the shadows later, where he wants to draw attention, rarely lifting his pencil entirely from the paper. The rough shapes of bottles on shelves and tables and chairs stacked by the walls are next, followed by rough shading, then finer details. He’s about to start using his shitty eraser to carve out some highlights when he hears the sound of a car engine outside. It stops, and he glances out of the window just in time to see two figures step out of a red pickup truck.

Hudson and Pratt.

Pratt looks the same as when John last saw him, still wearing his tattered Deputy uniform. Hudson, though, she looks different. She’s not weak any more, she’s not sobbing pitifully, broken and panicked and in pain. She’s stronger. And that look in her eyes— it’s cold rage.

…Rage that will almost certainly be directed at John, he realises, stomach dropping.

They won’t try anything while Rook is here. Rook will stop them— either through the respect given to him, or through physical force. He’ll be fine. Probably.

John glances around the room: Rook isn’t talking to Nick anymore. Instead, he’s discussing something with Jess, near the door leading to the hall, as he sticks something to the wall: a large map of Hope County.

John sets his notebook to one side, starts pulling on his gloves again. Why had he thought that hand tattoos were such a good idea? He’s got the most distinctive pair of hands in America, and most probably the world at large. He should’ve listened when Jacob started laughing at his tattoo sketches.

He’s just gotten the gloves in place when the door opens. He doesn’t glance up, just focuses on putting his notebook back in the bag, slotting the pencil tin next to it. He glances up when he’s done, and he has the worst timing— it’s the exact moment Hudson glances at him, and he can tell, instantly, that she recognises him because her body goes stiff and her mouth presses into a furious line.

It’s probably his eyes, John thinks. The Seed family baby blues. That, and the fact that all the other people in the bar seem to know each other and John's the only one alone, sitting by himself with his face covered. There's no way Rook hadn't told them that he'd be here. They must have known what to expect. That's probably why Hudson hasn't drawn the pistol in her holster, killing John on sight. The only reason she hasn't gone right for the kill (and she could, John knows full well how capable and smart she is) is because she's taking orders from Rook.

Hudson strides over, her pretty brown eyes narrowed in abject fury. She stops when she gets to the broken table, an invisible barrier that doesn’t make John feel much safer. Pratt stays a couple paces behind her, clearly wanting a front-row seat to this little show.

“I’d say that it’s nice to see you again,” Hudson says, not quite able to keep the anger out of her voice, “but that would be a _fucking_ lie.”

“Hello, Deputy Hudson,” John replies, reluctantly. Hudson’s smile stretches too wide.

“Nothing else you’d like to say?” Hudson asks. “No smart comments, now you’re not surrounded by your bodyguards?" She tuts. "You used to have a real sharp tongue in that mouth of yours.”

“I’m aware that most of the people in this room despise me and want me dead, and I’d rather not oblige them, if it’s all the same to you,” John says, doing his best to sound cool and collected and not at all nervous. 

Hudson smirks at that, shares a glance with Pratt. And then Nick Rye is beside Hudson, arms crossed angrily across his chest. 

“You ever stop to think that maybe people don’t like you ‘cause you’re a lyin’ piece o’ shit?” Nick says, before Hudson can speak again. “Cause I gotta say, I thought you was okay, despite your better-than-us attitude and your creepy religious bullshit, right up until you told the whole county that you _fucked_ Kim and that I _hit_ her.”

“You _insulted_ me,” John replies. And it's true. Nick had complained to anybody who'd listen about that watery mac and cheese John had worked so hard on for the Rye family potluck, not caring one whit about how much John had _tried_ to make something, to be part of the Fall's End community, to be _liked_. “I had to do something to piss you off.”

“Oh, come on! I ain’t never insulted you! And even if I had, you coulda just started a fistfight with me,” Nick snaps. “You didn’t have to try to ruin my business. You didn’t have to play me dirty like that. You got any idea how much we been strugglin’ since you pulled that shit?”

John shrugs, awkwardly. He could point out that Nick’s grammatical errors gave his words a meaning opposite to that which he’d obviously intended. And then he’d probably get another broken nose for his trouble.

“I figured nobody would believe the rumours,” John says, and the words sound so weak, so fragile as they fall out of his mouth. “You’ve got a reputation for being kind and honest, a real pillar of the community. All that stuff.”

“Most of the locals didn’t believe the rumours, okay,” Nick says. “But the newcomers? The tourists? They don’t know me. They hear that I’m a wife-beatin’ shitbag and they say ‘oh, maybe I don’t need a plane for crop-dustin’ this year’. They say 'huh, maybe I don’t wanna go for a plane ride with this asshole'. The first year after you pulled that crap, I made _nothin_ ’ from the tourist season. Not a goddamn _cent_. We _needed_ that money.”

John doesn’t say anything, because there's nothing he can say. He didn’t intend to harm Nick Rye’s family. Just piss him off, make him feel hurt, take him down a couple pegs.

“I, uh,” John scratches at his wrist, where his watch is. It’s hard to breathe with this scarf over his nose and mouth. “I didn’t think of that. I didn't think it was going to hurt you.”

“You—“ Nick starts, squeezing his hands into white-knuckled fists. “You single-handedly tried to ruin my business, and you didn’t think that would _actually_ hurt me? Oh, come _on_! You ain’t ever worked a goddamn day in your life, have you? You don’t know how hard it is for people like me! You don’t know the value of _anythin'_ , much less the money you throw around like fuckin' confetti!”

Nick continues ranting, and John can see Whitehorse rise from his seat in the background, turning toward the source of the shouting as Hudson nods along to Nick's raving, a righteous smirk on her face.

It would be so _easy_ to shut Nick up. Just mention that John’s foster parents— the ones Jacob burnt to death— had wanted slaves instead of sons, that John’s very first, fuzzy memories are of working in the dirt, with Joseph trying to both protect him and work his share too. But that’s too personal, too close to John’s heart. It’s a raw nerve that he doesn’t want exposed. Any sign of weakness on John’s part would be a mistake in this nest of vipers.

Rook appears, an unlikely saviour, halting Nick’s enraged ranting by simply placing a hand on his shoulder, muttering a soft word into his ear. In the background, Whitehorse looks relieved, lowers himself into his seat again. Nick grits his teeth, points at John.

“This ain’t over,” Nick spits, but he turns away, retreating for now.

“If we’re all here, we’d better begin,” Rook says, loud enough for the whole room to hear him.

The change is instantaneous. There's no more small talk, just business. Chairs scrape and people shift around, and Rook grabs John by the arm and pulls and within minutes everybody is arranged in a very rough circle near the bar. Burke and Grace Armstrong are still sitting at the bar, but everybody else has either pulled up a chair in the general area or is sitting on the floor. They're all facing Rook, who’s taken up a position near the door leading to the back hall. Someone has stuck a large sheet of paper on the door, and Rook’s holding a marker pen in his right hand. 

John’s been squeezed on a chair between Boshaw and Pratt, both of whom take up far more space than they should, considering they’re both so scrawny. Both of them manage to dig their elbows and knees into him in the least comfortable way possible. It’s infuriating. Hudson's over near the bar. She glares at John, but she doesn't come over. Good. Nick is on the raised platform, on a chair this time, Boomer in his lap.

“So,” Rook starts, when the last person settles into place. He turns and starts writing in large letters on the sheet behind him: JOSEPH SEED. “We’ve taken down three Heralds. Now we’ve just got the Father to go.”

Oh. So this is a strategy meeting. John grimaces under his scarf.

Joseph is going to be _really_ upset.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: while there is no rape or sexual assault in this chapter (or in this fic series at all for that matter), there is some discussion of these topics by John, which is intended to show how far he’s willing to twist the truth to suit his own needs. to avoid this section, skip from the line beginning [“Bullshit,” Pratt mutters.] to [Rook blinks, and clears his throat], approx. 9 paragraphs. I have not added tags for referenced rape/sexual assault, as it comes up only in this chapter. 
> 
> This ended up a lot longer and a lot more disjointed than I wanted. It turns out that writing such a huge group of characters is super difficult… Also, full disclosure: I don't know how arrests work in the USA. I've just assumed they're the same as in my country in that you have to be told you're under arrest and read your rights.
> 
> I’m not exactly happy with this chapter, but if I don’t post it as is I’ll end up in a vicious editing cycle and never posting it, and I’d really like to finish this story.

John crosses his arms, bumping elbows uncomfortably with Pratt and Boshaw. Rook is clearly still planning to arrest Joseph, which is a terrible idea on so many levels. He needs to put a stop to this idiocy, and soon.

“Jacob is dead,” Rook draws a small X under JOSEPH. “The Peggies are nearly gone from his region. Those that are left are pretty much all concentrated at the Veteran’s Centre. Whitetail Militia are keeping them there, as well as working on restoring radio connections with the outside. Jess, I’d like you to help them. Hurk, you’re on demolition duty: there’s a lot of Peggie shit lying around the county I didn’t get round to destroying.”

Rook punctuates his orders with notes on the sheet: MILITIA = SIEGE + RADIO, JESS = WHITETAILS, HURK = DEMOLITION.

“Ooh, ooh, does that include the ugly-ass sign in the hills?” Drubman Jr asks, clearly excited. Rook glances at John, then back at Drubman Jr.

“Yes,” he says.

“Wait,” John says. Why did Rook feel the need to look at him like that? Unless… “You’re not talking about my sign, are you?”

“It _is_ an eyesore,” Rook replies, far too casually considering he’s talking about John’s genius ‘YES’ sign in the hills above Fall’s End.It’s not an _eyesore_. It’s _art_.

“That,” John says, jaw clenched so tight he can barely force out the words, “is a violation of my right as an American citizen to freedom of religion and expression thereof. That’s literally the first amendment. You are a police officer, you should _know_ this.”

“I’d argue that forcing your religion on other people is a violation of that amendment,” Rook replies, coolly. “I’m not telling you that you can’t pray to Joseph, or whatever it is you believe. I’m telling you that your sign is hideous and everybody wants it gone.”

If this were a courtroom, John could easily cut Rook down to size. He could argue for days over this— has done already, way back when the FBI were sniffing around the Project when they were still in Rome. His silver tongue could convince any judge in the country to side with him, and it has, time and time and time again. John knows how good he is.

This isn’t a courtroom, though. This is a shitty abandoned bar filled with sinners who want John dead. He needs to choose his battles carefully here, lest the sinners decide he’s more trouble than he’s worth. So John simply glares at Rook. He’s a patient man. He’ll wait for an opportunity to strike with the best weapon he has: his speech.

Rook ignores the glare, and turns back to his sheet of paper.

“Faith has defected.” He draws a small O next to Jacob’s X. “Adelaide is bringing her over around half eight. She’ll go to Grace’s bunker with Tracey, who’s volunteered to be her jailor until we can get help from the outside. Grace, once they’re settled, I’m counting on you to arrange patrols in the northwest of Holland Valley: we can’t let Joseph get his hands on Faith again, and we want to make sure the Holland Valley Peggies stay in John’s Gate, nice and far away from everybody else.”

Rook writes again: TRACEY = BUNKER, GRACE = PATROL.

“I’ve left Minkler and Dr Lindsay in charge of the Hope County Jail. They’re reinforcing it, though I don’t think there’ll be any more attacks. The Henbane is pretty much free now. The remaining Peggies are scattered: the biggest group are at Faith’s Gate, preoccupied with trying to re-establish their Bliss factory. We messed it up pretty badly though, so we should have enough time to take Joseph down before they get it up and running again.”

“You didn’t destroy the factory?” Pratt asks, and he sounds unhappy even though he’s speaking with that creepy monotone.

“There were a lot of people in Faith’s Gate,” Rook replies. “I couldn’t justify it.”

Rook turns back to the paper, writes COUGARS = REINFORCEMENT.

“Pussy,” Pratt mutters, so low that even John, right beside him, can barely hear it. Rook continues, turning and pointing his marker pen at Boshaw.

“Sharky, you’re in charge of destroying all the remaining Bliss fields. I don’t want to see even one more of those awful flowers. Adelaide is going to reinforce the Marina, just in case, and she’s going to periodically sweep the whole county, keeping an eye out for Peggie activity. Same goes for you, Nick. Help Jerome and Mary May with Fall’s End, as much as you can. Sweep the skies, eyes peeled, report to me. Let me know if anything changes with the Peggies, or if you and Kim need me for anything.”

“Will do,” Nick says.

SHARKY = INCINERATION, ADELAIDE = MARINA + SKY, NICK = FALL’S END + SKY, Rook writes. He continues.

“John is… uh…” Rook pauses, drawing a second O next to Jacob and Faith’s letters.

“Under arrest?” Pratt prompts. Rook hesitates, looks distinctly uncomfortable.

John isn’t actually under arrest: he was never read his rights, never explicitly told that he was being arrested. No, he was kidnapped and locked away and treated like a prisoner despite not technically being one. Has Deputy Rook just now realised that he never arrested John? Or was that a deliberate choice? Either way, nobody else knows, and that’s something John is more than willing to take advantage of.

“I’m not technically under arrest right now,” John says, casually as he can manage. Step one, cause dissent.

“He’s not—?” Hudson starts, incredulous. Then, furious: “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Rook looks nervous, rubbing his lower lip with his thumb.

“There wasn’t a good time to do it,” Rook says, weakly. “And he’s been co-operative so far.”

“Put me down as ‘otherwise indisposed’,” John suggests.

“Jesus,” Burke mutters. “I can’t believe you didn’t arrest that son of a…” he cuts himself off with an exhausted sigh, rubbing his eyes. “God, this is a mess.”

“You forgot, didn’t you?” Pratt says. Rook nods slowly, his cheeks impressively pink.

“Rookie…” Whitehorse groans, softly.

“To be honest, it’s a good thing I’m not currently under arrest,” John says, smoothly. Step two: expose flaws in current state of affairs. Throw Rook and his allies off by reminding them exactly how badly they’ll lose if they continue down this path. “Because if I were, our dear Deputy Rook here would have a responsibility to protect me from harm. Not just physical, which he’s already failed at, but emotional too. He’d have to protect me from discrimination on the basis of my gender, race, political and religious views, and my sexual orientation, to name but a few. And of those five things, I’m counting at least two you’ve failed to protect me from since I started co-operating with you,” John pauses, tuts emphatically, “which is _terrible_.”

Rook looks confused. He blinks, slowly, and John takes that as a cue to continue.

“One,” John starts, holding a finger up. “I have been subjected to near-constant verbal abuse based on my religious beliefs.”

“Because your batshit crazy cult is _killin_ ’ people!” Nick interjects.

“That really ain’t very fair,” Drubman Jr agrees, continues as though anybody cares. “Y’all are forcibly baptizin’ folk, shootin’ anythin’ that don’t have a Peggie flag flyin’. Not cool, man.”

“Two,” John continues, as though he didn’t hear their interruption. “I have been verbally abused and threatened on the basis of my orientation.”

Rook blinks, that frown getting even deeper.

“What? When?” he asks.

“Bullshit,” Pratt mutters. John ignores him, and presses on. He speaks calmly, firmly, clearly, as though he’s facing a courtroom.

“Marshall Burke made a very offensive prison rape joke at my expense while I was being held at the jail,” John says. Okay, he’s stretching the truth a _lot_. But the point of this little speech isn’t to convince Rook that Burke is a homophobic mess, it’s to show Rook that his plan is _stupid_ and that John will completely destroy them in court should they arrest Joseph and press charges against him. “He insinuated that I would enjoy being raped because I’m bisexual.”

“Wait, what?” Burke’s head snaps up, frowning at John. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Since when have _you_ been queer?” Nick mutters, at near enough the same time as Burke. John ignores both of them. They aren’t important right now.

“What exactly did he say?” Rook asks, all business now. He’s clearly taking this seriously. Good. He should. If the Collapse doesn’t come before all this is over, John is going to bury the Sheriff’s Department in paperwork and court dates and everything else he can think of, anything to buy himself and Joseph more time and more freedom.

“ _Don’t drop the soap. Then again, I heard you were into that_ ,” John replies. “At the time, I was being lead to the showers with Deputy Pratt here, who has on several occasions attempted to cause me discomfort and physical harm. In context, it was a clear threat.”

“You know that they weren’t threatening you,” Rook says, at the exact moment Pratt gives a nasty, dry chuckle. “It was a stupid, insensitive thing to say, but—“

“No, I _don’t_ know any such thing. I was genuinely afraid. I felt _unsafe_ ,” John interrupts, the lies falling smoothly from his lips. “The Department of Justice doesn’t look kindly upon that sort of discrimination and abuse of prisoners. I will be filing several lawsuits against the Marshall when this is over. Don’t give me an excuse to sue you too.”

Rook blinks, hesitates a moment before he speaks again.

“Okay...” he says, obviously trying to figure out how to steer this meeting away from the chaos John has managed to instigate. He clears his throat. “So, uh, John is otherwise indisposed... Father Jeffries and Mary May are trying to reinforce Fall’s End, bring in any supplies the Peggies didn’t already steal.”

FALL’S END = REINFORCEMENT.

“Um…” Rook falters. “Dutch is still co-ordinating all the groups, keeping an ear out on the radio.”

DUTCH = MISSION CONTROL.

“So… the only region unaccounted for is here,” Rook jabs his marker at the map, at Joseph’s island. It’s still technically named ‘Holmes Island’, purely because Joseph hadn’t been entirely convinced that renaming it ‘New Eden’ wouldn’t count as hubris. “Joseph’s compound.”

Rook circles the island.

“We know Joseph is still here,” he says. “Aside from a couple excursions to the other regions, he’s stayed at the compound. Problem is, the entire island is crawling with Peggies, and they’re even more fanatical than the rest.”

“I still reckon you shoulda just let me strafe the place,” Nick says. “Clear out some o’ those scumbags before you swoop in for the arrest.”

Rook’s face creases in a way that implies that this is far from the first time he’s had to explain this.

“We need Joseph alive so he can answer for his crimes. The more Peggies that survive, the better: they’re eyewitnesses. Besides, most of them aren’t even bad people—“

“I disagree, Deputy, you’ve seen what they’ve done,” Grace Armstrong says.

“ _Bullshit_!” Jess snaps, at the same time. “What, you forget the Cook?!”

“I said ‘most’!” Rook protests. “Some of them are straight up evil, yeah. But a lot of them are just vulnerable and got themselves brainwashed, and we gotta help those ones. All of them are gonna go to jail, okay? But we don’t have to kill them."

“Except the Angels,” Boshaw says, helpfully. "We totally have to kill them."

“Lindsay is working on a cure,” Rook replies.

“Yeah, but if that don’t work,” Boshaw says. He shrugs. “Disco inferno three: the Sharky-ning. Booyah.”

“If that don’t work,” Rook agrees, clearly reluctant. “Fine. But we’re going through all the other options first.”

“That’s cool, I can wait,” Boshaw sits back, far too cheerfully considering they're talking about _incinerating_ people. Rook sighs, and returns his attention to the sheet.

“So,” he starts again. “Joseph is here. We need to stage a confrontation. John, any ideas?"

“What?” John asks, flatly.

Rook can’t be serious. He can’t really expect John to roll over and betray Joseph like that, can he?

…But then again, John _did_ help Rook deal with Faith’s Gate. Rook probably thinks that John is an ally now. Which isn’t exactly _inaccurate_ , but it’s certainly not right either. John didn’t do any of those things because he’s turned against Joseph. He did them because he needs to convert Rook to stand any chance of surviving the Collapse.

“Look,” Rook says, patiently, as though he has all the time in the world. “I get that you don’t want us to hurt your brother. I don’t want to hurt him either.”

“Then don’t arrest him,” John says. It’s simple. There’s still time to turn away from this path. To do the right thing. To join the Project.

“I can’t do that,” Rook says. “He’s broken the law. He’s hurting people. I have to bring him in. I’m serious— I don’t want to hurt Joseph. I want to _help_ him. We'll take him for a psych eval, and we'll figure it out from there.”

John scoffs at that. Really? Help by having Joseph locked in some psychiatric facility, where he’ll be easy prey for abusive doctors and nurses? He knows the way those places work.

“Psychiatric hospitals are a place of healing,” Rook says. “I’ve seen your records. Your mom is in one of those facilities, isn’t she? So you know they’re not all that bad."

“That weak-willed _bitch_ is only in a facility because Joseph said we had a duty of care, but nobody actually wanted to look after her. If it were up to me, I’d have let her rot on a street corner. I couldn’t care less whether she’s getting abused in there. In fact, I hope she _is_. She spent years letting our father abuse us— it’s only right that she suffers just as much as we did.”

“Jesus…”someone says, flatly, from somewhere behind John. Rook simply stares at John, his brown eyes wide, mouth oh-so-slightly open in shock.

“I gotta say, that is _super_ messed up,” Boshaw mutters, awkwardly scratching his neck, doing his best to look anywhere but at John.

“ _That’s_ messed up?” John hisses. “I’ll tell you what’s messed up. Giving birth to three children, but not giving a damn about them. Standing by while your useless drunkard of a husband beats the shit out of them for just being kids. For not being silent enough. For not praying enough. For reading a fucking comic book. And then, when the beatings are finally over, not even caring enough to check up on them. Ignoring and neglecting them, starving them while you lie back and smoke and drink your life away.”

“Uh—“ Rook bites his lip. He opens his mouth, then closes it. “Look, John, I’m sorry those things happened to you. Really. But Joseph—”

“—Is a _good_ _man_ ,” John interrupts him. “Joseph has _always_ been a good man. He looked after me when we were children, cared for me as our parents did not. He always tried to protect me, even after we got separated from Jake. And later, after everything the Duncans did to me— all the beatings and the gaslighting and the verbal and emotional abuse… I was in a bad place. I was barely functional. I was on the edge. And then Joseph came to me. He helped me. He gave me a second chance.”

“A second chance?” Rook asks. His gaze is intense, fixed on John as though there’s nobody else here. But his voice is soft— almost like he’s yearning for more.

“A second chance,” John confirms. Time to reel him in. “Just like the second chance I’m offering you. I know that I was cruel to you, that my methods were too harsh. I was just trying to help, but I see now that I was flawed. This time can be different. _I_ can be different. I’ll draw the sin from your flesh with prayer instead of pain. I’ll cleanse you inside and out, pull out every rotten thread from within you. I’ll fill you with blessings, set your heart aflame with sacred words, exalt your soul higher and higher and higher and _higher_ until you beg me for release…“

John trails off, counts in his head three seconds for Rook to fully process his words before he’ll finish his offer with a charming ‘all you need to do is say yes’. One, two—

“Oh, come on!” Hudson interrupts John’s silent count. “You’re not seriously listening to this shit, are you?”

“No offence, but that sounds super gay,” Boshaw adds, jabbing John in the ribs with an elbow. And then he keeps talking: “Like, I don’t mean gay as in ‘oh that’s bad’, I mean gay as in ‘homoerotic to the extreme’. That sounded really, _really_ gay.”

“No, it didn’t,” John says, flatly. How does Boshaw know what ‘homoerotic’ means? How dare he, of all people, make fun of John like that? It was a serious offer, grounded in concern for Rook's spiritual welfare, not sexual desire.

“Yes, it did,” Rook agrees, the uncomfortable look back on his face. “It really did.”

“Well, it wasn’t supposed to!” John snaps. These people are _impossible_! They don't deserve John. They really don't. “I— Look, I’m offering you safety. Protection. Sticking with Eden’s Gate is the only way to survive the Collapse. I’m trying to _save_ you.”

“What, and get locked in a bunker with _you_ for seven years?” Nick asks. “Pass!”

“Rather die than end up in one o’ your Gates,” Jess hisses. “I’ll kill every fuckin’ Peggie out there before you drag me into your fuckin’ freakshow.”

“Save us? Is that what you call getting off on torturing people? You’ll never take me back to that hellhole!” Hudson snaps.

There’s the rising murmur of many people talking, and, horribly, they all seem to be in agreement: no Gates. No Project. No salvation. Idiots, the lot of them.

Rook clears his throat, loudly, and the noise slowly stops.

“John, what can I do to make Joseph agree to meet me?” Rook tries again, still stubbornly stuck on the idea of arresting Joseph. God, why is Deputy Rook so obsessed with this ridiculous idea?

John glances round the room: all eyes are on him. Some, like Hudson, have their hands dangerously close to their weapons. Their faces are drawn with anger, with suspicion, with ire. He _can’t_ refuse to assist them, he realises, stomach sinking. They’ll surely kill him, whether Deputy Rook intervenes or not.

Joseph can’t get mad, he tells himself. There’s not a judge in the country that would consider this anything except extortion. And it’s not like he has to be particularly useful— he’ll still have time to convert Rook if he gives him the information he needs to set up the arrest. All John has to do is plant enough doubt in Rook’s heart before then.

It’ll be fine. Even if Rook goes through with the arrest, the Collapse will wipe the sinners from the earth sooner or later. And in the meantime, John can work to free Joseph, to rebuild whatever remains of the Project.

Everything is going to be okay.

“You haven’t given me any good reason to help you,” John says, choosing his words very carefully. “But I’m not an unreasonable man.”

“Bullshit,” someone mutters, and John is pretty sure it’s Hudson.

“If I help you,” John continues, very very carefully, “There are a few things I’d like.”

Rook sighs.

“Such as?”

“I want amnesty. You don’t arrest me, you don’t press charges against me. I walk free.”

Pratt laughs at that— a long, cruel laugh.

“You can’t be serious!” Hudson protests.

“You broke the law. You interfered with an arrest,” Rook says, frowning. “You do remember the night of the raid, don’t you? You bombed a bridge to stop me and Burke from getting away.”

“Yes, I do remember attacking the bridge,” John says. “And I also remember that you never actually arrested Joseph.”

“What?” Burke’s voice is barely audible.

“Oh…” Whitehorse mutters.

“Did you, at any point, actually tell Joseph that he was under arrest?” John asks.

“We— the warrant—“ Rook stumbles over his words, looking uncertainly at Whitehorse and Burke. “That was enough, wasn’t it?”

“No,” John says. “I can understand why you, a newbie, might think so. You’ve been a Deputy for, what? Three months? I’ll bet it was your very first arrest, wasn’t it? Not a whole lot of criminals out here in Hope County…”

Rook nods, uncertainly. John tuts.

“I’m honestly shocked that your Sheriff didn’t correct you, and it’s frankly astounding that someone claiming to be a federal Marshall would allow such shoddy practices. Next: did you, at any point, read Joseph his rights?”

“We were going to do that at the station,” Rook says, more confidently.

“You have to do that at the actual arrest,” John says. “Otherwise, it’s not an arrest. It’s a glorified kidnapping. For _shame_.”

“I told you this would happen,” Whitehorse mutters, presumably to Burke.

“So: we’ve just agreed that no law enforcement officers present at the so-called arrest actually did any of the things that constitute a lawful arrest, which means that Joseph was never under arrest. Ergo, I could not have been breaking the law by attempting to free him,” John argues.

“What’s ergo?” Boshaw asks, brow furrowed.

“Asshole talk for ‘therefore’,” Pratt replies.

“You have no grounds to arrest me based on the events of your raid on the compound,” John finishes. “You can provide amnesty for me by arresting Joseph only on the grounds of your original arrest warrant— anything else— meaning all events that have happened between that night and now— would rely on circumstantial evidence and hearsay that cannot stand in a court of law. And let’s be honest, _you_ haven’t exactly behaved lawfully in the last couple weeks, either.”

A quiet threat: if you take me down, I’ll take you down too.

“I—“ Rook groans. He looks over at Whitehorse, who gives him a miserable-looking nod. “Okay. Fine. You get your amnesty.”

”What?” Hudson demands.

“And I want my house back,” John adds. “You don’t have any legal grounds to continue squatting there.”

Rook doesn’t look happy, but he slowly nods.

“We… can arrange something,” he says.

“Great,” John smiles, underneath his scarf. This is going to be good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want to gush about far cry with me, you can find me on tumblr at either peltonea (where i post fic updates and general writing stuff) or amistrio (my personal, which is 99% memes and gay stuff).


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joseph’s child murder comes up. To avoid this section, skip from the line beginning [ “Joseph wants to save everybody. Protect them from the horrors of the Collapse because his God told him to.“] to [“Maybe that’s part of it. But Joseph is ill“] , approx 18 paragraphs. This will be discussed in more detail in the end chapter notes, as I have had to make some deviations from canon.

There’s a half-second of silence before Hudson ruins it.

“ _What_?!” she demands. “No fucking way! You can’t do this, Rook!”

“He’s right, Joey,” Rook says, and he’s starting to look exhausted again. “We are breaking the law by stealing his house. Maybe we can work out some way to keep it as a base while letting him—“

“No,” Hudson says, and she’s gotten up off her stool, is stalking forward with her face twisted in anger and her finger pointed at Rook, her voice half-hysterical. “No, you don’t get it. He’s a fucking _monster_. You know what he did to me— to all the people he kept locked up in his Gate. You know how he tortured us, how he’s been torturing people since before this shit even started. We’re not making concessions for him. We’re not doing it.”

“Joey, he’s going to pay for what he’s done,” Rook promises. “He’ll either spend the rest of his life in jail, or—“ Rook hesitates for a split second, it’s barely noticeable, but he does, “—I’ll put a bullet between his eyes myself.”

“Not if I do it first,” Hudson snarls, and Rook looks pained.

“You don’t want to become a killer,” Rook says, and he takes her wrists gently, pulls her hands down and holds them. “Even if they deserve it, it sucks. You won’t sleep and you won’t eat and it’ll just keep playing in your head, over and over and over. You’re a good person, Joey. I don’t want to see you dive into that kind of personal hell.”

Hudson looks furious, and she yanks her hands out of his grasp, fury blazing across her pretty features, and she glares at John in a way that makes him genuinely afraid. A lesser man would probably have pissed himself at that glare, but John’s seen far worse. Joseph's ire, directed at a traitor. Mr and Mrs Duncan, standing in the kitchen with a Bible in hand.

“Dep’s right,” Grace Armstrong says. “Killin’ is awful. You might feel fine right after, but havin’ blood on your hands… that’s a heavy thing. It weighs on you. Drags you down. It’s bad enough when you’re takin’ out people who want to kill you, when you’re actin’ in self defence…"

Grace trails off for a moment, her voice cracking just a little. Hudson’s looking at her, mouth pressed into a line, but she’s obviously listening, which can only be good for John. When Grace starts speaking again, her voice is clear and strong and firm.

“Ma’am, what you’re describing ain’t that. You want an execution, and I get why. I agree with you— John here _does_ deserve to die for the things he’s done. But you can’t be the one to kill him, not out of anger and rage like that. It’ll just fester inside you, and you’ll feel worse and worse and it won’t help you any.” Grace pauses, looks over her shoulder at Jess Black, who’s standing near a pillar, arms crossed. “Hey, Jess— did killin’ the Cook make you feel better at all?”

“This ain’t about him,” Jess spits. “He deserved to die a thousand times over, and so does Johnny over there.”

John scowls. That nickname again. They don’t have the right to use it.

“I agree with you, but that ain’t what I asked,” Grace replies. “Did killin’ him make you feel better? Did it help you?”

Jess Black is silent for a second.

“I guess not,” she concedes. “I… I feel empty. But it’s a _good_ thing I did it. It’s a good thing he’s gone. He can’t hurt anybody else now, burnin' in Hell.”

Grace nods, and then she begins again.

“I reckon we do what Rook wants. Look at John— he may be talkin’ his slick lawyer talk, but he’s been de-clawed. He’s got no power any more. He’s got no family, no friends, no followers around. His money’s not worth shit, he’s got no access to his resources, and he doesn’t have a goddamn thing to bargain with, ‘cept future hypotheticals. I wonder, how long has it been since he’s had a shower or nice clothes? The last time he had any real privacy? The last time he got laid or got to speak to anybody who don't want him dead? That’s gotta be hell for a shallow asshole like him.”

John does not confirm or deny her remarks, though the glances he’s getting are a lot more thoughtful than they were previously.

“We let him have his fancy ranch back for a while. We let him back at his wardrobe and his liquor cabinet and whatever else it is he’s been missin’ while he’s been locked up. And in return, he helps us out. He fucks up, we put him straight back into hell. He _really_ fucks up, we put him in the ground. He plays nice, and we play nice in return," Grace finishes. "And when this is over, we get justice.”

Hudson shakes her head, and her mouth twists in a way that suggests she’s close to crying.

“He’s going to get away with it. Like he’s gotten away with everything else so far,” she says. “It’s not _right_.”

“Joey,” Rook says, softly. “That won’t happen. I promised, didn’t I?”

Hudson doesn’t say anything for a long moment. She sniffs, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and crosses her arms.

“Fine,” she says, although she’s clearly not. She doesn’t go back to her seat: she takes a step back and leans against the counter by the door. “Go ahead.”

Rook nods, though he clearly wants to say something more. He clears his throat.

“So. Joseph. Meeting.” Rook points at John. “Go.”

“You won’t need to do anything,” John says. “As soon as he’s finished up his eulogy for Rachel, he’ll try to contact you. He’s desperate to save you, and with three out of three siblings currently out of the picture, his options are running short."

“Oh,” Rook says. “That’s… easier than I expected.”

“Joseph is a very straightforward man,” John shrugs.

“I thought I was going to have to get you on the radio with him or something,” Rook mutters, scratching absently at his stubble. “Issue some kind of hostage demand.”

That wouldn’t work, not considering how angry Joseph is at John. How angry he _will_ be at John.

“Unnecessary,” John says. “All you need to do is wait for his broadcast, then show up at the designated time and place. It’ll probably be his compound, in two or three days’ time. He won’t have his followers around. Probably won’t even be armed. All he'll do is talk to you.”

“Bull. Shit,” Pratt replies, and then there’s a cacophony of protests.

“You expect us to _believe_ that?”

“Dep, he’s clearly trying to get you killed.”

“You can’t trust this asshole!”

It takes a few minutes, but Rook eventually manages to calm the room again.

“John, you _really_ expect me to believe that Joseph is going to call me to his church, and he won’t have taken any countermeasures?” he asks. “I’m not living through that helicopter nightmare again.”

“Whether you believe me or not, that’s the truth,” John replies. “Joseph won’t lift a finger in his own defence. He trusts in God to do it for him.”

“That’s a load of crap,” Burke interrupts. “You remember the raid, right? Those Peggies fucking swarmed us.”

“Against Joseph’s orders,” John says. He doesn’t mention that it had been Jacob who’d arranged the little rescue from the helicopter. “And anyway— acts of God aren’t all Biblical shows of lightning and fire. Sometimes the Lord merely touches the hearts of mankind. Sometimes He calls the faithful to defend their prophet.”

Rook’s lip curls. He’s clearly not convinced.

“Look,” John says. “Joseph wants you saved even more than I do. God has spoken to him: you must become one with us.”

“Don’t tell me that Joseph’s in on this gay shit, too…” Sharky mutters, and John elbows him viciously to shut him up.

“He has witnessed countless futures,” John says. “He barely sleeps— ever since the Reaping began, he’s been bombarded with visions. The complete annihilation of humankind. Endless war. Scattered handfuls of survivors fighting each other for scraps…”

“John,” Rook says, looking very sad. “That’s called ‘psychosis’.”

“And in the latest vision, he has seen a peaceful, bountiful future in New Eden,” John presses on, ignoring Rook and his stupid, ignorant remarks. “He and I as old men, sitting under an apple tree, looking over the society we rebuilt after everything else was destroyed. Deputy, Joseph firmly believes that you are the key to that future. That’s why he wouldn’t let Jacob cull you. That’s why he had you take the Leap of Faith. That’s why he ordered me to save your soul.”

“Joseph is ill,” Rook says, more firmly this time. “I think you’ve known that for a long time.”

“He _isn’t_ ,” John protests. “Joseph is just trying to help— all he wants is to save as much of humankind as possible. To protect everybody he can from the oncoming Collapse. Men and women. Black and white. Young and old. Sinner and saint. It doesn’t matter. He wants to save us all.”

Joseph’s visions are hard to swallow, sure, but they make _sense_. There’s not a single government in the world that’s not corrupt, not a single nation on Earth that’s not a cesspit of sin and cruelty and sheer, unadulterated evil. So of course God would destroy them all— John’s been paying close attention to the radio lately. Right before the Reaping began, the peace talks out in the Middle East were quickly failing. It’s not a stretch to think that nuclear war is nigh. Why can’t that be the Collapse Joseph preaches so fervently about? Half of Hope County has half-assed bunkers under their homes— why is it only crazy to be prepared when you’ve got a Bible in your hand?

“Joseph just wants to protect people,” Rook repeats, and judging from the way his face is twisting, the way his arms are folded, he doesn’t believe John at all.

“He does,” John confirms. “He’s a good man.”

Rook scoffs, and he looks at John with a bitter smile twisting his mouth.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, I can buy that. But I have a question for you, John. Just one little question, if you’d care to answer it.”

This is obviously some kind of trap. But it’s also the closest John has gotten to a serious theological talk with the Deputy since all this shit with Grant and the Chosen went down.

“What is it?” John asks. If he can give Rook a sufficient answer, maybe he’ll be able to sway him. Not completely, not right away, but it’ll be a start.

“Joseph wants to save everybody. Protect them from the horrors of the Collapse because his God told him to. I’ll admit, that’s a noble goal. But how come Joseph’s baby daughter doesn’t get that protection?” Rook asks. He smiles, and it is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a friendly smile. “I heard _that_ story straight from the horse’s mouth. I was just starting to question myself— just starting to come round, just starting to wonder if maybe I shouldn’t join you guys after all, and boom: Joseph admits that he’s a baby killer.”

Oh.

Oh, that explains so _much_. Why Rook’s been fighting so fiercely, why he’s so quick to believe that Joseph is crazy and evil and dangerous. He doesn’t  _know_.

“Joseph killed a baby?” Nick Rye whispers. Then, louder, utterly disgusted: “He _killed_ his little baby girl? You Peggie fuckers are _sick_!”

Rook looks up, presumably meets Nick’s gaze as he raises a hand, a gesture to halt. Nick doesn't continue his tirade. Rook tilts his head, looks at John again.

“Go on,” Rook says. “Tell me why baby girl Seed didn’t deserve to live. Tell me why you’re following a god that wanted a newborn child dead.”

John shakes his head. Jesus, where does he even _begin_? The whole thing with the original Faith Seed is a mess. He doesn’t like to think about it, but it’s important that Rook understands. That’s the biggest sticking point, that’s the problem John’s got to solve. Joseph isn’t— he’s not crazy, but— God, how on earth can John explain that Joseph’s _wrong_?

“I don’t know what Joseph told you,” he says. “But let me preface this by saying that although my brother did not lie to you, he most certainly did not tell you the truth, either.”

Rook doesn’t look impressed, just continues glaring with those dark eyes, so black they’re almost a void.

“Joseph told me that he smothered her. He was so distraught when the doctors broke the news about his wife that he didn’t realise he was holding her too tight,” John says, and almost immediately there are angry shouts and curses and Pratt’s glaring at him in an honestly terrifying way. John presses forward quickly, raising his voice just loud enough to be heard above the noise. “He told Jacob that he snapped her neck by accident. He’d been exhausted and utterly consumed by grief and he hadn’t realised that he was hurting her. He told Selena that he accidentally drowned her as he baptised her in a sink, desperate to make sure that God would watch over her. He told Rachel that he misdosed her medicine— his hands had been shaking and she’d been crying so much and he just couldn’t stand to see her in pain.”

Rook’s frowning now, black eyes fixed on John’s. But his body language is softer now. Less rigid. He’s listening. So John continues.

“Now, I looked up all the paperwork. Little Faith’s death certificate, the doctor’s reports, everything,” he says. “Officially, she died of heart failure brought on by her injuries in the crash. I know how hospitals work— they wouldn’t let a guy who killed his baby girl just walk out. No, they’d arrest him or section him, or both. It couldn’t have happened in any of the ways he’s described it. Not even close.”

Rook doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head as his dark eyes narrow in thought. The angry murmuring has mostly died down, but John’s not in the clear yet.

“I don’t think Joseph is lying. Not consciously. I think that his daughter died in his arms and he…” John shakes his head. “Joseph never really processed it. Keeps reliving it over and over in his head, keeps blaming himself ‘cause he was her father and he thinks he should’ve saved her somehow. And every time he remembers it, he twists the memory a little bit more and he twists his role a little more, and the whole thing slowly turns from a horrible tragedy into a weird, fucked-up human sacrifice.”

There’s silence for a moment. Actual dead silence.

“John, you know none of this is right,” Rook says, softly. “What you’re describing isn’t normal. Joseph needs help.”

“He’s just grieving,” John says, because it’s true. Joseph is fine. He’s always fine.

“Maybe that’s part of it. But Joseph is ill,” Rook replies. “He’s really, _really_ ill. Deep down, I think you know that.”

“He’s a prophet,” John replies, and his voice sounds weak to even his own ears.

“No,” Rook says. “No, he’s not.”

The silence stretches for a moment longer, before Sharky Boshaw breaks it.

“Man, your family is _fucked up_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a long time trying to figure out how to reconcile Joseph’s child murder with the undying loyalty of his siblings. But ultimately, I couldn’t do that without screwing up my plans for the rest of this series. Considering what little the game shows us of the Seed siblings’ interactions and the very limited information we get about the murder, we have two options.
> 
> Either 1) the siblings know that Joseph murdered a baby, but they don’t/can’t care & are complicit in covering it up (which is entirely possible, let’s be honest). Or 2) there’s more to the murder than the player gets to see. 
> 
> As this fic is pretty much entirely about redemption, I went for option 2. It supports Rook’s argument that Joseph needs psychiatric help rather than a jail sentence, and it prevents John from being completely irredeemable. This change from canon is not intended to downplay Joseph’s crimes or the abuses he has perpetrated. It is not intended to woobify any of the Seed siblings, or otherwise absolve them of the awful things they’ve done. It is purely because I couldn’t figure out a way to keep both the murder as portrayed in canon and the Seed siblings still 100% loyal to Joseph in a way which didn’t completely derail the plans I have for this AU.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update this time. The last week has been really busy for me

John, with no small degree of difficulty, resists the urge to throttle Boshaw. The Seed family may have problems, but the Drubman-Boshaw clan is nothing short of completely dysfunctional. They’re worse than all the other sinners put together— to be judged and found wanting by Charlemagne Boshaw of all people is beyond the pale.

“No more so than yours,” John hisses, and Boshaw looks a little taken aback. He doesn’t say anything more, though, just crosses his arms and looks away. 

Rook turns back to the board and writes again on the paper: LAW ENFORCEMENT = ARREST.

“Where was I?” Rook asks.

“Johnny here was trying to convince you that Joseph’s not going to resist arrest,” Pratt says. John scowls, under his scarf.

“Right,” Rook says. He looks at the map again. He sighs. “John, how many people normally live at the compound?”

“It changes,” John replies. “Before the Reaping began, it was about forty. Those who’ve survived so far won’t be there, though. Joseph will have sent them all away.”

“You really think we’re that stupid, don’t you?” Hudson gives a short, bitter laugh and shakes her head. “You son of a bitch.”

“Now, hold on just a second,” Whitehorse says. “I’ll admit, Mr Seed here is not…” he pauses, obviously trying to phrase things diplomatically, “the most reliable source of information. But he’s also been surprisingly co-operative with us so far. In some cases, he’s bordered on helpful. We couldn’t have rescued you without his assistance.”

Pratt scoffs, and Hudson looks murderous.

“You wouldn’t have had to rescue me if it weren’t for him,” she snarls.

“I’m not disputing that,” Whitehorse says. “Obviously, we should take his claims with a pinch of salt. But he hasn’t lead us astray so far, and I doubt he wants anything bad to happen to his brother.”

A thinly-veiled threat. If John tries to lie, Joseph will be hurt. Can’t expect honesty from these sinners. Still, Whitehorse’s unlikely defence seems to be changing the air in the room— there’s ever-so-slightly less hostility now.

“He’s right,” John says. “I haven’t lied to you at all since you, ah, took me into custody.” He could say ‘kidnapped me’, but he accusations, no matter how true they are, will only make the sinners less inclined to listen.

“Yes, you have,” Rook replies, and he looks annoyed now. “You’ve been lying and telling me half-truths this whole time.”

“I haven’t,” John says, automatically, and Rook looks even more annoyed.

“I’m not an idiot,” he says. “I know when someone is trying to manipulate me. That’s all you’ve been doing since I rescued you.”

“Well…” John starts, but Rook cuts him off.

“That first night, you told me that you didn’t know why Joseph wanted me converted. And now, suddenly, you do,” Rook pauses. “Sure, you could have been confused because of the concussion. I’m a reasonable guy, I can buy that. But all the stuff afterward? You’ve got no excuse for that.”

“I—“ John stammers. This was not how any of this was supposed to go. He was supposed to listen, maybe argue a little, but accept John’s word as fact eventually. “What other stuff?”

Rook’s lip curls.

“How about at Faith’s Gate? You insisted we entered at the top of the cliff, said that your key wouldn’t open the lower entrance. Lo and behold, when we left, your key suddenly did work there after all. You lied to me.”

“It made more sense to do it my way,” John protests. “You weren’t listening, so I had to get creative. And anyway— it worked, didn’t it? If we’d tried to shut down the Bliss production with Whitehorse and Burke all Blissed out like that, someone would have gotten hurt. My way, we all got back to the jail alive and in one piece.”

Rook doesn’t look convinced.

“Cut the shit, John,” he says. “I’d be more inclined to listen to you if you weren’t constantly trying to manipulate me.”

There’s nothing that John can say to that, not without revealing quite how many half-truths he’s told. If he starts questioning John’s other assertions— especially that he doesn’t know why Grant and the others tried to drown him— he’ll surely discover just how worthless John is in Joseph’s eyes right now. And that’ll end very badly for John.

John doesn’t say anything, just gives a very small nod.

“Why’d you help us, John?” Burke asks, before Rook can resume his planning. “When we left Faith’s Gate. You could’ve run off back to Joseph. You could’ve taken all of us back to Joseph. But you didn’t. Why?”

John closes his eyes. There’s no easy answer to that. No easy answer that doesn’t involve admitting what’s really happening with Joseph. Fortunately, John is well-versed in inventing defences on the spot. It’s a solid thirty percent of his regular job, the rest being mind-numbingly boring land- and business-related paperwork.

“Deputy Rook killed most of the doctors at Eden’s Gate,” he says, carefully. “There are currently only two, both stationed at my Gate. We established earlier, when we helped Rachel, that Doctor Perkins was in the far west of the Whitetails. Both places would take a very long time to reach, more time than I thought I had. Deputy Rook was bleeding out pretty badly, and I didn’t know if Whitehorse or Burke were seriously hurt. Joseph would be very upset with me if I let Deputy Rook die instead of guiding him to Eden’s Gate, and I knew that Deputy Rook would never willingly join us if I let his allies die. So the only logical thing to do was to head back to the jail, which was nearby, where I knew Doctor Lindsay would be able to treat you all.”

“A paragon of virtue,” Pratt says, smirking again.

“Helping us to help yourself,” Burke shakes his head. “Typical. Self-serving asshole…”

Rook taps the sheet with his pen irritably.

“Can we get back to planning?”

Burke holds his hands up, a peaceful gesture that looks mocking on him.

“Go ahead.

“Thank you,” Rook says. “So, the arrest. I’ll go in unarmed, let Joseph say his piece.”

There’s immediately a cacophany of protests:

“The fuck are you thinkin’?”

“You trying to get yourself killed?”

Rook ignores them, and addresses his colleagues, raising his voice just loud enough to be heard above the racket his friends are making.

“The rest of you— Hudson, Pratt, Whitehorse, Burke— you’re my backup. You’re fully armed. You’re on the lookout for stray cultists, you’re making sure John doesn’t run off while I’m dealing with his brother, you’re making sure that I don’t get myself killed playing nice with the Father. He wants me converted, he won’t hurt me until I turn him down.”

Joseph won’t even hurt Rook then, but trying to explain that would be pointless. These people have already decided that Joseph is a monster. 

“We’re taking John with us?” Pratt complains. “What’s he gonna do? Complain the whole time? He’s been doing that all along— we don’t need him. He’s weak.”

“He’s going to show Joseph that we’re capable of playing nice. That we’re gonna do the honourable thing and uphold the law, instead of straight-up killing him like he probably expects. Best-case scenario, he realises he’s lost and he turns himself in willingly. Worst case, he’s surprised enough at the sight of his not-dead baby brother that we get the drop on him.”

Hudson shakes her head.

“You can’t trust John,” she says.

“I don’t have to,” Rook replies. “John’s going to be cuffed until we get back to safety, and he’ll be watched the whole time.” He looks at the map again, and sighs. “We’ll need a van. Or another helicopter.”

John has several helicopters at his disposal, but he’s not going to offer them to any of these assholes. They’d probably just turn him down anyway.

“Take a couple of the Cougars vans,” Whitehorse suggests. “Plenty of room for us and Joseph, and if we’re split into two, any Peggies wanting to interfere and get their leader back will have to split their forces too. We each take different routes to and from the compound. Regroup at Fall’s End or the jail. One of us flies out to Missoula with Joseph and Burke—probably me or you, Rook. Everybody else hunkers down, prepares to defend against one last wave of desperate Peggies. National Guard arrives, helps put everything back to rights. Then we can get back to rebuilding what can be rebuilt, and burying what can’t.”

“I like that plan,” Rook says. “Anybody got an objection to it?”

Nobody speaks, and Rook nods, looking satisfied.

“Okay,” he says. He re-caps his marker. “So, the plan for today: law enforcement is gonna head over to Fall’s End while everybody else starts on their assigned duties. I need to check a couple last things with Mary May and Pastor Jerome. Get together everything we’re going to need for the confrontation with Joseph. Then we go to Seed Ranch, plan our routes, finalise contingencies. Co-ordinate all Resistance groups for this last push. Then we deal with Joseph.”

Rook pauses and looks around the room, surveying his allies. His mouth tightens when his gaze runs across John.

“Any questions?”

A few people shake their heads. The only real reply is an enthusiastic bark from Boomer, eagerly thumping his tail against Nick Rye's leg. Rook smiles, looking somehow brighter, like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

“Then let’s get started.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was really hard to write, for some reason. I'll come back and edit this later, so it flows better, but for now... plot progression!

Adelaide Drubman arrives at eight-thirty on the dot.

By then, most of Rook’s allies have disassembled: Jess Black left the moment Rook finished speaking, shooting a glare at John before letting the door slam behind her. Burke went off to Fall’s End with Nick Rye, Hudson and Pratt in tow. It’s a good idea, and John feels a little better for it— Hudson’s wrath is still directed at John, and Pratt’s still… well, he’s Pratt. He never used to be so cruel, but then again, neither did Hudson. Sin really can do terrible things to people.

Grace Armstrong is still around, nursing a bottle of water, and the Drubman cousins are still here, cooing over that mangy little dog, Boomer. They’re all unsubtly keeping an eye on John as he waits. Still, they don’t talk to him and he doesn’t talk to them and he’s happy with that. He’s got his sketchbook.

Drawing the room from a different perspective is interesting enough to distract John for now, especially since he’s adding the people in it this time: Whitehorse is a slightly chunkier collection of lines when compared to Rook’s longer, smoother shape. Drubman Jr. is a portly, slightly exaggerated set of curves, while his cousin is a lanky, straggly figure. Grace Armstrong is harder to get right: it’s difficult to capture her calm personality in just a few strokes of graphite, but he does eventually. That awful dog is a scribbled, half-hearted oblong of hatched lines, bouncing at Rook’s feet.

John’s not exactly _displeased_ with the result, but it’s a reminder that it’s been a long time since he’s really drawn people. The last time… well, now. That had been when he’d tattooed Joseph’s dead wife onto his arm. That must have been… what? Fifteen years or so now? Since then, he’s just drawn up Eden’s Gate tattoos and the images that adorn himself and his siblings. He's kind of lost his knack for drawing actual human beings.

He needs more practice.

Tracey arrives maybe ten minutes before Adelaide does, giving John a nod of acknowledgement before heading straight to Rook, where he’s talking with Whitehorse by the map on the wall.

“Hey, Dep. Jail’s about as ready as it’s gonna get. Dr Lindsay’s got some of the fellas from the Jessop Conservatory and the old brewery back at the jail already, and there are others heading down from King’s Hotel and the Drubman Marina. Said it’s gonna take some work to get the place properly up and running again, but he reckons they’ll be able to withstand another assault by Sunday.”

Rook looks relieved, nods.

“Good to hear,” he says. “Addie on her way?”

“She was talking to her squeeze when I left,” Tracey replies, with a grimace. “She was being real loud. I reckon she’ll be on time, though. Rachel’s pretty much ready to head on over here— Lindsay did a real good job of patching her up.”

“That’s good,” Whitehorse says. He crosses his arms, cocks his head a little. Hesitates. “You sure you’re up for this?”

“It’ll be fine,” Tracey replies, a little too forcefully. “Rachel and I go way back. She won’t hurt me.”

Not physically, but Rachel’s always been good at getting in people’s heads, manipulating them into doing what she wants. If John had to guess, he’d say it’ll probably take a week for Rachel to have Tracey eating out of her hand again. And other places too.

Rook just nods along, clearly convinced that this is not in any way a terrible idea, and their conversation turns to more mundane shit— Sherri Woodhouse is awful glad Rook managed to find that whiskey for her (she’s sent her thanks and a couple barrels over to Fall’s End), that asshole Guy Marvel is still causing a ruckus up near the old mine. Eventually, their conversation is drowned out by the steadily-growing droning of Adelaide’s chopper.

When Rook makes his way to the door, he jerks his head at John, an obvious gesture for him to follow.

Outside, Adelaide’s landing her chopper on a clear patch of grass, whipping dust and pollen up into the air, into John’s eyes. John blinks, trying to wipe the worst out of his eyes once she stops the engine. He’s never been so glad for this awful scarf.

“Hey, Ma!” Drubman Jr exclaims, cheerful as ever. “You doin’ okay?”

Drubman Jr heads over to the chopper, while his cousin stops near John, just outside the covered porch. Rook’s already halfway to the passenger seat, where Rachel is sitting, all pale and pitiful, looking exhausted. Tracey’s one of the last people out of 8-Bit, her arms crossed, face grim.

“Hey, uh, you’re a lawyer, right?” Boshaw asks, scratching his beard awkwardly. His eyes are fixed on Adelaide Drubman as she saunters out of her helicopter, drawing her awful son into a hug before heading over to Whitehorse for a presumably innuendo-filled exchange of words.

“Yes,” John says, grinding his teeth. 

“Uh, I need your opinion on something.”

Boshaw won’t be able to pay John’s usual rates. Normally, John would just laugh and saunter away, but that’s not really an option here. With Rook and Whitehorse so close by, he needs to at least pretend to be nice. John’s no fool— his outbursts earlier obviously did not endear him to the men he’s currently dependent on.

“What is it?” John asks, and tries not to sound too annoyed. He fails.

“Uh— say you have, like, a super hot relation who’s married into your family. And I don’t mean just a little bit hot. I mean like super duper, come-in-your-pants kind of hot. If they, like, divorce your uncle or whatever, is it still incest if you, uh, fuck ‘em?”

John’s brain short-circuits momentarily.

“Yes,” he says, even though he’s pretty sure it’s not. He really didn’t want to know that Charlemagne Boshaw has the hots for hiscreepy cougar of an aunt. He could have quite happily lived the rest of his life without that knowledge. He _would_ have quite happily lived the rest of his life without that knowledge.

“Oh,” Boshaw says, looking disappointed. “You sure?”

“Yes,” John says. “I’m very sure.”

He prays, in vain, for the Lord to smite the last two minutes from his memory. Alas, God seems to have abandoned John. Or maybe being forced to talk to Charlemagne Boshaw is some kind of divine punishment for a sin he hasn't yet atoned for. Probably murdering the faithful yesterday.

Adelaide finishes her conversation with Whitehorse and vanishes into the bar, so Boshaw turns his attention to Rachel instead. He’s practically salivating, eyes fixed on Rachel as Rook helps her out of the helicopter, her arms tight around him. John’s lip curls.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he says, to Boshaw. “She’s gay.”

“What?” Boshaw’s head snaps toward John, and he looks genuinely distressed. Good. “You’re fuckin’ with me, right?”

“I’m afraid not,” John says, even though he kind of is. He’s not really sure if Rachel is a lesbian— she might have some interest in men, John hasn’t asked. In any case, warning Boshaw off like this probably counts as kindness. Whatever’s happening between Rachel and Tracey is complicated, and an oaf like Boshaw is only going to get his feelings hurt if he tries to wander in.

“But…” Boshaw mutters, glancing back at Rachel. Deputy Rook’s supporting her weight as they walk to Tracey’s truck. “She’s been flirting with me… Always smiling and saying how we oughta go to church together…”

John’s pretty sure that was not supposed to be flirting, but he wouldn’t put anything past Rachel. She’d needed to be the most efficient Herald, lest she joined her predecessors. She’d worked so much that John had rarely seen her outside of church and family dinners, always tinkering with the Bliss, always coaxing locals to walk the Path. Nearly succeeded with Boshaw, it seems.

“Well,” John shugs, putting on his most flirtatious tone. Teasing straight guys is always fun, when John’s sure it won’t end with a black eye and a broken jaw. The way it catches them off-guard, makes them squirm... it's hilarious. “You could always come to church with _me_.”

“Uh,” Boshaw’s face is a picture, his earlier distress mingling with confusion, with just a hint of embarrassment. “You’re— you’re fucking with me now, right?”

“Yes,” John says. “Unless you’re actually interested in attending one of our services, in which case my offer is entirely serious.”

Boshaw blinks, and then gives an awkward laugh, and that’s when Deputy Rook looks up, having closed the truck door behind Rachel, who’s visibly fumbling with her seatbelt. Tracey is climbing into the truck bed, settling into a comfortable spot between all the boxes, while Grace Armstrong heads over to the driver’s seat.

“Anything you want to say, John?” he calls. “Could be a while before you get to talk again.”

John can’t think of anything, not really. He heads over to the truck anyway, and Rachel’s eyes follow him. Rook steps away from the vehicle, and John peers through the open window.

Rachel’s posture is stiff, and it’s not just from pain. Her eyes are wide, mouth pressed into a thin line, and her breathing is shallow.

She’s afraid. Or, to be more accurate, very good at _pretending_ to be afraid.

John scowls. Her innocent act is annoying. She’s got nothing to be scared of. Even if the Collapse doesn’t happen, which it definitely will because Joseph isn’t crazy, she’s the least likely Seed sibling to go to jail, even if John doesn’t defend her. Juries always go soft on white women, especially young girls like Rachel. And knowing Rook and his bleeding heart, he won’t arrest Rachel at all. Not now he’s bought her little sob-story about being gaslighted into the Seed family, or whatever.

John needs to reel her back in a little. It’s— well, it’s not really fine that she left the Project, but he can still work with it. But she needs to be reminded of just how precarious her position is, even now.

“Take care of yourself,” he says. “If anybody tries to arrest you, plead the fifth and contact me.”

It probably sounds like a nice offer to Rook and Grace’s ears, but he can tell from the way Rachel swallows, the way she blinks, her gaze wavering, that Rachel has understood what John really means: she may have renounced John and Joseph, but they have not yet renounced her. The same advice that has followed her throughout her career as Faith is following her now, even after she’s tried to leave it behind.

It’s a gentle threat, a quiet reminder that even in her current position, she needs John, and by extension, Joseph. Do not betray the Father any further. She’s left Eden’s Gate, and that ought to be enough. If she starts running her mouth, starts up that bullshit about Joseph being an abusive false prophet again, John’s going to pull out all the stops. He could easily get her locked away on drug charges, if nothing else.

Rachel nods, very slowly.

“Okay. I’ll see you later,” John says, and he steps away from the vehicle, nods at Rook.

“Seriously though, stay safe,” Rook calls, and Grace nods from behind the steering wheel. Rachel averts her eyes, focuses on her knees instead of John or Rook.

“Will do,” she replies, and then she’s pulling the truck smoothly away. Tracey waves from the bed, and then the truck rounds the corner, passes out of sight.

Deputy Rook takes a deep breath, rolls his shoulders, stretches his arms out. He sighs, watches the dust rising off the road for a moment before he crosses his arms again.

“Guess we’d better head out soon, huh?” he asks, as though John gets any say in this at all. John just shrugs.

Things happen very quickly after that. Boshaw and Drubman Jr leave together, having apparently only stuck around so Boshaw could ogle Rachel and Adelaide. They clamber onto a quadbike and pull away with a screech, clearly excited at the prospect of wreaking their particular brand of chaos upon what’s left of Hope County. Honestly, Rook will be lucky if there’s anything of Hope County left after those idiots are done.

This time Whitehorse is the one driving. John gets the passenger seat again, and Rook stretches himself across the backseat. Whitehorse flicks the radio on, to the sinner’s channel, but turns the volume down low.

Whitehorse’s driving is pretty much as expected of an experienced law enforcement officer. He sticks less stringently to the law than Rook does, because he knows how far he can stretch the speed limit before veering into dangerous driving. His turns are smooth, and he knows exactly where to position the car to avoid potholes and rough patches of asphalt. He clearly knows thr roads of Hope County like the back of his hand.

When John glances back, at where Rook is lounging, he’s surprised to see that Rook’s asleep. The man’s a machine, all endless stamina and strength. Seeing him at rest... it feels wrong, somehow. Maybe he lost more blood yesterday than John thought, maybe still has some leftover Bliss in his system. Whatever the reason, Whitehorse doesn’t seem surprised at all. He just gives John a meaningful look, readjusts the rearview mirror, and continues driving.

The rolling hills of the Henbane soon give way to flat plains and lush fields. It doesn’t take long for Whitehorse to get them to Fall’s End. They pull up smoothly outside the Spread Eagle, where Mary May and Jerome are standing just outside the porch.

Deputy Rook hasn’t moved an inch, still deep asleep. Whitehorse cuts the engine, puts a finger to his lips. When John climbs out of the car, he follows Whitehorse’s lead, closing his door as quietly as possible.

“Good to see you, Sheriff,” Mary May smiles brightly. “How’s Rook?”

“He’s sleeping,” Whitehorse says.

“Your guest ready for some hard work?” Jeffries asks.

“I reckon so,” Whitehorse replies. “John, pick up that bucket there.”

There’s a bucket nearby, a ladder leaning next to it.

“What for?” John asks, suspiciously, though he does as he’s asked. There’s a hammer in the bucket, as well as a pair of rubber gloves.

“Remember how we talked back at the jail?” Whitehorse asks. “Specifically about how you gotta clean up your own messes?”

John’s stomach sinks. He glances over at Jeffries’ church. John’s decorations are still there, the blood from the crows now dry and brown on the whitewashed wood, the beautiful silks now stained by rain and dust, the flowers wilted and browning.

“You’re not serious,” John says. He needed eight men to put all those decorations up in the first place— how is he going to take them all down by himself? He’s been stuck in jail for… what, a week? More? The dead birds are probably half-rotten by now.

“I am,” Whitehorse says. Jeffries has a self-satisfied smirk on his face, and Mary May looks like she’s enjoying this far too much.

“But—“ John starts, and then thinks better of it. Rook’s still asleep in the backseat. Whitehorse won’t offer John the same level of protection against the other sinners. “—I mean, all alone? It took forever for my men to get all that set up. And there were eight of them.”

“It’s okay, you can take your time. You’ve got the whole day ahead of you,” Jeffries says, and he’s— God, he’s been looking _forward_ to this, hasn’t he? He’s got a nasty little smile on his face, a mean-spirited lilt to his words. A man of God should not be so petty, so cruel. These sinners are all the same, and John will relish the day the Collapse hits and kills them all.

“You’ll be allowed to take breaks,” Mary May says, too brightly. “We’re not monsters. Casey’s cookin’ up a _real_ nice lunch for you.”

That sounds ominous.

“I guess I could try,” John mutters, because he can't really do anything else, and Whitehorse pats him on the shoulder reassuringly.

“All I ask is that you do your very best, son,” he says. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right here if you need me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sharky canonically has the hots for Adelaide (and Faith). It’s more explicit in New Dawn, but there are mentions in FC5 too.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh… warning for gore, I guess? Or however you’d classify graphic descriptions of cleaning up rotting dead birds? If you want to skip that, it starts at [In any case, it’s the dead bids and the spikes] and goes to [Whitehorse brings John a bucket of hot, soapy water and a sponge], approx 12 paragraphs.

It turns out that by ‘right here if you need me’, Whitehorse actually means ‘relaxing on a deckchair while you struggle’. He’s sitting on the lawn outside the church, sipping from a glass of ice-cold lemonade courtesy of Mary May.

Most of the clean-up goes well, despite Whitehorse’s sloth. John notices that someone’s already taken down the Eden’s Gate banner, and the rain’s washed off most of the painting on the roof. A shame, but not surprising. They’d clearly wanted to be rid of the divine glory of the Father and his flock, but either been too lazy to do it themselves, or too wrathful. If John had to guess, he’d say it was probably the latter: they’d clearly been planning to force John to do this for a while.

This is a twisted form of Atonement, warped through the eyes of the sinners into some kind of punishment, rather than the— the gift it’s supposed to be.

John manages just fine with the flowers and the silks. It’s difficult and irritating, but he manages to get the silks torn down, shoved into one of those heavy-duty garbage bags, closely followed by countless half-dried flowers and ferns, and more aphids and spiders than John cares to think about. The stepladder helps: John’s not short, not really. He’s of fairly average height and build. He’s not as tall as Jacob or Joseph, and they’re not here to help him reach the highest hanging points, and Whitehorse shows no sign of willingness to lift a finger and help John, merely leaning back in his deckchair, a paternal smile on his face and a book in his hand.

“You can do it, son,” Whitehorse calls. John just scowls, shoves the last handful of half-dead plants into the garbage bag, swatting gnats away. The scarf stops them getting into his nose and mouth, but they’re way too close to his eyes— he can feel them on his eyelashes when he blinks.

In any case, it’s the dead birds and the spikes that give John the most trouble. There are a lot of them, following the arch of the church doors, then higher up, near the top of the spire.

John attempts to pull one of the dead birds off the spike before pulling the metal out of the wall. Even with rubber gloves on, the corpse squishes disgustingly under his fingers, and he can see insects and maggots wriggling inside the rotting flesh. The sickly smell of decay fills the air, and John grimaces. The flesh leaves a black, sticky residue on the metal, and on John’s gloves: rotten blood. Still, the bird comes off the spike fairly easily, the decaying flesh tearing away.

John throws the corpse into the garbage bag, and spends a solid five minutes trying to pull the spike out of the wood. His men did a good job. Too good. It shouldn’t be so hard to yank a piece of metal out of wood panelling, but the blood makes John’s hammer slip awkwardly out of position, and he can’t find a good angle to work from and it’s just incredibly tedious and much more stressful than it really should be. It’s just a really big nail sticking out of a wall. It’s not like he’s writing New Eden’s constitution from scratch— that’s his side-project, something to keep him occupied when he’s not running his bunker during the Collapse. It shouldn’t be difficult.

It shouldn’t be difficult, but it is. John’s starting to sweat by the time the spike finally comes free, nearly falls on his ass when the spike clatters to the ground. He doesn’t, though, and he starts work on the next one. And then the one after that.

Removing the spikes becomes harder the further John gets. He has to fetch the stepladder again, figure out how to extend it, find an angle he can work at without toppling down the stairs. The sticky blood on his gloves makes the hammer slide under his fingers, just enough to make this difficult. He has to work at strange angles— his shoulders start aching far too quickly, and he ends up accidentally squeezing one corpse too hard, squirting rotten blood all over his shirt and jacket. The higher John gets, the more careful he has to be to avoid falling when the spike finally slides free. And, of course, the longer he works, the higher and brighter the sun gets in the sky.

Deputy Rook appears at some point, when the sun is at its peak and John’s getting thirsty. Rook staggers over to Whitehorse, rubbing at his eyes, and says something John can’t quite hear. Rook vanishes again, and John returns to his stupid, fruitless, impossible task.

Eventually, the spikes around the main door are finished, and John throws the disgusting little corpses in the garbage bag, laying the spikes themselves near the low wall surrounding the church grounds. Now it’s just the spikes on the the spire left.

“Might need a cherry picker to get those ones off,” Whitehorse says, thoughtfully. He’s finally standing up, brushing imaginary dust off his pants.

“I don’t think I have one of those,” John replies.

“There’s scaffolding out back,” Whitehorse says. “You know what? Just get the birds off, and wash the blood off. We’ll get a cherry picker down from Gardenview tomorrow, and you can dig those last spikes out then.

There’s not much John can say to that, so he just shrugs and follows Whitehorse to the scaffolding, climbs up onto the roof, and starts working on getting the dead birds off the spikes. It’s hard— the angle the roof is at is just steep enough to make keeping his footing difficult, and he ends up accidentally slipping at one point, tearing one corpse off the spike in such a way that he ends up with gross blood and bits of feather across his scarf and his sleeves.

Whitehorse brings John a bucket of hot, soapy water and a sponge, as well as the garbage bag, and when John is finally done tearing corpses off spikes, he starts washing the rotten blood away. That’s much less difficult and time-consuming than removing the spikes had been.

Whitehorse sets John to cleaning the paint off the church next. While the sigil on the roof is mostly gone, the words daubed on the entrance and the sign outside are not, and John scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until it feels like his shoulder is about to fall off. The paint his men had used is good stuff— too good. It doesn’t break down, wants to stay on the wood, needs to be scraped out of the cracks. Still, John gets most of it off in the end. Enough to earn an ‘okay’ from Whitehorse, and a shrug from Pastor Jeffries, who’s come out of the makeshift infirmary to enjoy the show, and to exchange a few words with the Sheriff.

Finally, John is finished. For today, anyway. He ties the garbage bag, sets it next to the pile of spikes. He pours the soapy water under a nearby bush, and then sets the sponge and bucket near the garbage bag. He pulls the rubber gloves off, laying them on top of the brick wall.

“You hungry?” Whitehorse asks. Pastor Jeffries is still beside him, arms crossed.

What a stupid question. Of course John’s hungry. He’s starving. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday.

“A little,” John says, because acknowledging any kind of weakness in front of the sinners can only lead to trouble.

“Well, I reckon Mary May and Casey are cookin’ up a late lunch for us as we speak,” Whitehorse says. “You want to head over to the bar?”

John shakes his head.

“Can I change my clothes first?” he asks. “I’m covered in rotten blood and bits of corpse. You really want to eat right next to me like this?”

Whitehorse scratches his chin.

“I’d like to say yes,” he starts. He looks at Jeffries. “You got any clothes that might fit him?”

“I have something better than that,” Jeffries says. “I have his clothes, from that first night. They’re a little stained, but they’re clean and they’ll fit.

“Okay,” Whitehorse says. “Clothes first, then food.”

John is lead back to Jeffries’ house, where Jeffries picks up a familiar blue-and-grey bundle of clothing from an armchair.

“You can use the bathroom,” Jeffries says. “Just make sure that you leave the dirty clothes on top of the laundry hamper. Easier for me to clean later.”

The bathroom is not as nice as John’s own, of course, but the soap here doesn’t dry out John’s hands, the towels are whole and fluffy, and the toilet paper isn’t one-ply, waxy crap.

John gets changed, bundling his dirty clothes and his disguise together, leaving them atop the laundry hamper as directed. Then he takes a few minutes to relieve himself and wash his face and then he tries to fix his hair. ‘Tries’ being the operative word: his hair isn’t co-operating without gel, and it’s all greasy anyway, hanging awkwardly in front of his face instead of slicking back like it should, the way he likes it. Still, at least he’s wearing his own clothes now, the vomit stains barely noticeable on the blue silk of his shirt when he rolls the sleeves up.

Whitehorse is waiting in the living room when he leaves, feeling much more like himself. When they reach the Spread Eagle, Burke is waiting outside in a pickup truck, Rook talking to him through the open window. Hudson’s in the passenger seat, Pratt sprawled in the back.

Pratt wolf-whistles at John, which earns him a dirty glare from Rook and an awkward swat on the shoulder from Burke.

“Just a second, Seed,” Whitehorse says. “You go on in, and I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Fine,” John says, and he does.

The bar is near-empty. A couple Resistance fighters loiter around, all of them distinctly unhappy at the sight of John.

“You’re late,” Mary May says, from behind the bar. 

“Fashionably late,” John says, smoothly. Mary May looks him up and down, at the waistcoat and his favourite jeans, and she raises an eyebrow, her expression saying it all: she disagrees. Vehemently.

“Take the table by the door,” she says. “Lunch is almost ready. I’ll bring it out to you guys.”

John does as she asks, making sure to keep his hands on the table so that none of the Resistance members here can have an excuse to start something. He doesn’t look at them, keeps his eyes wandering around the bar instead. It’s exactly as it used to be, all those years ago. Despite John’s best efforts, Mary May had managed to keep this place well-stocked and well-maintained.

Mary May returns a few moments later, a plate delicately piled with food in hand. She places it in front of John, a bundle of napkin-wrapped cutlery dropped beside it.

“Bon appétit,” she says, not even trying to pronounce it properly.

“What is it?” John asks, looking at the food. It looks much nicer than the usual slop they serve here: a well-presented plate of vegetables and mashed potato, topped with a few deep-fried blobs and artfully-drizzled chilli sauce. It looks like perfectly edible, good food.

“Oh, just oyster,” Mary May says, airily. “Deputy’s asked that we give you the same as we’d give our own. Between you and I though, if it were up to me, I’d be feeding you horseshit.”

Good thing Rook has such a tight hold of the sinners of Fall’s End, then. John picks up his fork and pokes at one of the deep-fried blobs, and Mary May bustles back to the bar.

It doesn’t look like any kind of oyster John’s ever eaten before, but of course these backward hicks would destroy perfectly good seafood by deep-frying it. He’s not sure where they could’ve gotten oysters, nor how they could’ve lasted so long out here— the Reaping started a good two months ago, and power’s been intermittent at best the last couple weeks— not that it really affected Eden’s Gate, with their backup generators— so it’s unlikely that frozen food could have lasted this long in Fall’s End.

The oysters are probably out-of-date or something, then. Maybe he can get away with eating just one, claiming to not feel very hungry after all, and hope that he doesn’t get too sick. He’s got a couple days at the ranch in the near future, he can spend those resting. Even if he’s too ill to enjoy the comfort of his own home, it’ll be infinitely better than being ill at the jail.

John spears a blob with his fork, the golden batter cracking slightly. It all smells like perfectly decent food— there’s no acrid stench of rot or urine or worse. He can only smell the sweetness of freshly steamed produce, a hint of smoky chilli, and familiar, comforting, deep-fried carbs. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that the meal were perfectly edible, that Mary May hasn’t tampered with the meal.

John opens his mouth and bites down.

There’s no foreign bodies in the food, not as far as John can tell. The batter is smooth and soft on the inside, all crunchy and delicious on the outside. The meat inside is definitely not oyster, though. The texture is similar: it’s tender, a little slippery. He can’t put his finger on the taste. It’s delicate, a little sweet, but it’s definitely not seafood of any kind. It’s not terrible. He swallows, thinking hard.

What is it?

“Oh,” Mary May arrives back at the table, a clean glass and a chilled bottle of alcohol-free beer in her hand. “Silly me. I forgot— you probably ain’t ever eaten prairie oyster before. It’s a real local delicacy. Deputy Rook went out and got our Testy Festy gear last week, right before your fucked-up little atonement service, and we had ourselves a damn good time. Lucky for you, Casey saved some of the meat, stuck it in the freezer for later. And now you get to enjoy it.”

John’s stomach rolls, and he looks up to meet Mary May’s steady gaze, a tell-tale smirk on her lips. He knows all about Hope County’s annual Testicle Festival. He’s been trying to get that shut down for years, and very nearly succeeded this time. Of course Deputy Rook, with his bleeding heart and utter lack of taste, would have helped them stage that monstrosity.

“My compliments to the chef,” John says, and he smiles wide, loading his fork with more food— an asparagus spear, a piece of carrot, a smear of potato, and another testicle. “It’s really not as bad as I expected.”

John makes sure to keep eye contact with Mary May when he puts the food in his mouth, chewing down exaggeratedly, giving a small hum of appreciation. Mary May’s smile wavers for a moment as she opens the beer, pours a generous measure.Obviously she’d wanted a different reaction. Disgust, maybe. A public tantrum. Either way, John isn’t going to give her the satisfaction of getting upset. At the end of the day, it’s food, it’s better than anything he got to eat at the jail, and it’s not as bad as he expected.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” Mary May says, sweetly. “I’ll pass on the message. You best eat up, you got a lot of work ahead of you.”

Mary May walks off, spine and shoulders tense, frustration in the swing of her hips and the clenching of her fists, and John grins to himself. He continues eating, relishing the tender crunch of the perfectly-cooked vegetables, the richness of the potato, the smoky heat of the chilli.

Deputy Rook returns a few minutes later, Whitehorse with him. Whitehorse heads to the bar, grabs a couple alcohol-free beers, while Mary May emerges from the kitchen carrying two plates of food.

“Enjoy,” Mary May says, setting the plates down. It’s the usual fare for this place. Grilled cheese, a pile of fries, some salad on the side.

“Thanks,” Rook says, taking one half of the grilled cheese, biting into it eagerly.

“Looks good, thank you, Ma’am,” Whitehorse nods at Mary May.

“Oh my god,” Rook mutters, and he looks like he’s either about to cry or come. He swallows, looks back up at Mary May. “Hey— tell Casey my offer still stands, won’t you?”

“I will, but I’m fairly sure his answer’s going to be the same,” Mary May winks. “Loves his wife too much.”

Rook makes a disappointed noise as he takes another bite. Whitehorse simply laughs, and it’s the most cheerful John’s ever seen him.

“I think Chad Wolanski’s still single,” Mary May says, thoughtfully.

“Mm. Not my type,” Rook says, around a mouthful of cheese and bread.

“We’ll find you someone, don’t you worry,” Whitehorse says, patting Rook’s shoulder, and then he starts eating too.

John stabs another testicle, with a little more force than strictly necessary. So Deputy Rook’s type is sweaty, overweight, middle-aged hicks. He really has no taste at all.

For a few moments, there's silence.

“Good job, Seed,” Whitehorse says, taking a sip of his beer. “Didn’t think you’d actually manage it.”

“Well, I did,” John says, and he’s not sure if he’s supposed to be annoyed or not at that little comment.

Silence again.

“Burke and the others are heading over to the ranch. They’ve got the supplies we needed, and there’s a couple prepper stashes nearby I want to take a look at before we head over to the compound,” Rook says.

John doesn’t say anything to that. There’s nothing that he can really say.

Silence.

“What did they make you?” Rook tries to start a conversation again. "Doesn't look like grilled cheese to me."

“Testy Festy leftovers,” he says. “Actually not that bad.”

“Yeah, that surprised me too,” Rook nods. “I thought they were great. Could’ve been the shots, though. Not much of a drinker, to be honest.”

It doesn’t take long before their plates are cleared.

When it’s time to head out again, John gets bundled back into the passenger seat of Rook’s terrible car and Rook drives this time. The ride from Fall’s End to John’s home is only about ten minutes, but it feels so much longer.

When Rook finally halts, in front of John’s front door, it doesn’t feel right.

Someone tore all the Eden’s Gate banners down. The faithful patrolling the grounds, always a smile on their lips or a kind word for their Herald, are gone. They’ve been replaced with sinners with hate in their eyes. When John enters the atrium, the first thing he sees is that the paraphernalia in his display cabinet has been pulled out, tossed in a corner, the photographs of John and his brothers smashed in their frames. 

It’s John’s home, but it's wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just so we’re 100% clear: john’s idea of ‘well-presented’ food is the artsy kind of plating you’d find in a michelin-starred restaurant in paris. casey is dedicated to the art of feeding people & also mocking john. also, i'm not sure if casey is actually married, but let’s just say he is.
> 
> disclaimer: i have never eaten bull testicles before and i do not intend to start. i’m just embellishing in-game dialogue at this point.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one ended up being really long and weirdly disjointed. 
> 
> Warning to those who do not like to read this sort of thing: John (non-graphically) jerks off in this chapter. To skip this part, it starts at [John takes a shower,] and ends around [It takes a long time for sleep to take him], approx 3 paragraphs. I haven’t added tags for this because it’s pretty short and is not explicit.

John crouches, picks up his favourite photograph, peeling it out of its shattered frame.

It’s, what, fifteen years old? Maybe a little more than that. It was taken not long after their family had been re-united. Joseph, so much younger, still the calming presence he is today. He’s in the middle, a kind, hopeful smile gracing his lips, the kind of smile John hasn’t seen for a long time. John himself is on the left, his sleeves rolled up to reveal clear, un-tattooed skin. His grin is manic, hair flopping into his eyes— John doesn’t think he was high when this photo was taken, but it was definitely taken before he got clean. Jacob is on the right, hair freshly cut, beard neatly trimmed. His smile is barely there, like he’s forgotten how to make that expression, but his posture is relaxed, his eyes less dull than they had been at the shelter.

 _“Come on, at least try to look pleased to see us,”_ John had teased, leaning in close to Joseph, stretching his hand over to Jacob’s shoulder.

Jacob had mumbled something about not looking very good on camera, and Joseph had simply chuckled, drawing his brothers close to his side, one arm slung around each waist.

 _“You’re perfect as you are,”_ Joseph had said. _“The scars you’re so ashamed of… wear them as a badge of pride. For you, and you alone, protected us."_

John’s heart had _soared_. Yes— this is what family is supposed to be. Love, patience, kindness, gratitude, safety. Together, nobody would hurt any one of them again. The future had stretched ahead of him in that moment, bright and beautiful and endless in its possibilities. Selena had taken the photograph, the flash blinding for a moment, and then she had gently set the camera down, giving the brothers their privacy as Jacob quietly wept, overcome for a moment by the unconditional love of his family, the painful joy of realising that he would never be forsaken again: his brothers would always be by his side, for as long as he would allow them. His tears had soaked through John’s silk collar, hands grasping helplessly at Joseph’s shoulder.

Jacob is never going to weep again, John finds himself thinking as he carefully tucks the photo into his waistcoat pocket. He’ll never smile, nor laugh or tease or blink or _breathe_.

“Are you all right?” Deputy Rook asks, as he lugs a duffel full of ammunition to the dining table. He sets the bag down, starts back toward the entrance, pausing when he sees John crouching.

Jacob is never going to do any of those things again because Deputy Rook _murdered_ him.

“I’m fine,” John says, his stomach twisting itself into mournful knots. “Just old memories.”

Rook looks at the shattered glass, the torn Books of Joseph, the flags and banners strewn in a dusty heap.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realise they'd—" he clears his throat "—I’ll get that cleaned up for you.”

“Good,” John replies, and he carefully picks out the other photographs, too, and adds them to the small collection in his pocket.

It’s not as good as having Jacob alive and well, living and breathing and actually physically here, but it’s as close as John can get to having Jacob with him, seeing this mess through to the end. Deputy Rook _will_ walk through Eden’s Gate, one way or another. John _will_ be redeemed. He and Joseph _will_ build their New Eden together. And they _will_ try to live, even with a gaping hole where Jacob is supposed to be. Rachel doesn’t matter. Fuck her. She’s probably already getting railed six ways to Sunday by Tracey, anyway. As long as John never has to see her snivelling face again, he doesn’t _care_.

John stands up again, checks the rest of the house. The kitchen is closest, so that’s where he goes first. It isn’t pristine as it usually is. There are dirty dishes and utensils stacked in the sink, his fridge and larder mostly empty. Someone’s broken the blender. There are other people’s clothes hanging in his laundry room, muddy boots piled by the back door.

His office, separated from the rest of the ground floor, is a mess. There are papers scattered everywhere, books haphazardly flung from the shelves. John’s law degree has been torn from the wall, face-down on the carpet in a frame that’s more than likely been shattered. There’s graffiti on the walls, LIAR and MONSTER daubed in black paint. The Eden’s Gate cross John hung above his desk is smashed to pieces on the floor. The sinners haven’t destroyed the computer, likely recognising its importance as evidence if Rook’s silly little plan works before the Collapse hits. They’re probably hoping to get an internet connection re-instated sometime soon, too.

John sighs, poking at a ring-binder on the floor with his foot. He’s not cleaning all this up right now. It’s going to take _forever_ to get everything re-ordered.

John’s bedroom isn’t much better. The best thing that he can say is that nobody seems to have pissed or defecated on his belongings. He’s pretty sure someone else has been sleeping in his bed, because it’s all unmade and the sheets smell like stale sweat. His wardrobe is open, and someone has clearly rifled through because his hangars are no longer neatly arranged by piece and by colour. A couple random pieces of clothing are flung about the room— a creased waistcoat draped over a door handle, a pair of briefs on his bathroom floor. His personal copy of the Book of Joseph is nowhere to be seen, but his Bible is still in his bedside cabinet. Which is more than he can say than the rest of his belongings— his spare cell charger is gone, there are condoms and toys missing from his bedside cabinet, and most of the toiletries have been taken from his bathroom, presumably to be shared amongst the sinners.

John would like to scream in frustration, but he doesn’t. Rook or Whitehorse would come looking, or one of the others would come to mock him, and he doesn’t want to see any of them. He’d like to rage, break something, break everything, but that would only create more mess, and there’s nobody to clean for him or who’d even be willing to help him clean. John would like to sit down and start drinking, or start smoking, or— and he wants this last one so bad— to start snorting a decent stimulant and to find a warm body that'll help him fuck out his frustrations. Of course, he doesn’t have any cocaine or acid or even locally-grown ‘oregano’ at the ranch, and the only people here now are the ex-Sheriff’s Department and the sinners patrolling the grounds. Out of all of them, only Whitehorse and Rook are willing to exchange so much as two sentences with John, let alone bodily fluids. Whitehorse probably couldn’t get it up if he tried, and Rook is— Rook is just _evil_. So that's a no-go. And trying to satisfy himself with his hand is only going to be depressing.

So John does the only thing he can: he cleans. Aggressively. He tears sweat-stale sheets off his bed, replaces them with clean ones with only a little difficulty. (He’s done this before— he’d had to make his own bed at college, and there’d been a solid six months where Joseph had declared that John wasn’t allowed to have housemaids any more, presumably because he couldn’t stop having sex with them. That was before the therapy, though.) The discarded clothes get shoved in the laundry hamper, and John carefully inspects his remaining belongings: his shoes seem untouched. His comb is just where he left it. Nobody seems to have stolen his underwear, although he’s definitely missing a lot of socks. His spare pair of blue sunglasses are okay, perched on his dresser.

Once everything is set to rights— insofar as that’s possible— John returns to the atrium, intent on curling up in an armchair with a nice book and a measure or two of whiskey. He’s still tense and annoyed, wound tight with anger and annoyance. But he does feel a little better. Maybe he’ll try to tackle the office later: or part of it, anyway. At least get his papers in order and get that glass swept up. Or tomorrow.

Pratt is kneeling in front of the fire, feeding the fire with pieces of paper. John almost walks right past on the way to the bookshelf, and then he notices just what Pratt is feeding the fire with. There’s a box of Books of Joseph at his knee, the paper in his hands clearly torn from the book laid atop the box, spine bent, cover shredded.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” John snarls, snatching the papers from Pratt’s hand. “Those are the holy words of the Father!”

Pratt draws himself up to his full height, regards John with cold brown eyes.

“No, it's bullshit,” he says, and he grabs John by the shoulder and knees him in the stomach, hard enough that John pretty much immediately doubles over. Pratt shoves him backward, hard, and John stumbles, falling on his ass. He should've taken Jacob up on those self-defence lessons when he had the chance.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” John gasps for breath as he struggles to his feet.

“I should be asking you that,” Pratt replies, tossing the remainder of the Book into the flames. He takes a step closer to John, kicks him in the chest, sending him sprawling again, winded. He stands over John, cocks his head to one side. “You’re so different to Jacob. All you do is whine, trying to manipulate the people around you. It’s hard to see the family resemblance.”

Pratt brings his foot down on John’s groin, stomping hard as he can. John cries out in pain, overwhelming nausea rising in his throat as he scrambles back, trying to regain his breath. Pratt shakes his head, gives a low chuckle.

“You’re weak,” he says, and he leaves, whistling as he heads out the front door.

John stays where he is for a moment, until his lungs start working again, until his legs feel like they can hold his weight once more. He forces himself to his feet, ignoring the tender pain that spikes with each movement. He staggers into the kitchen, grabs an ice pack from the freezer. He clambers into one of the chairs at the island, forces open his jeans just enough to get the pack in place, lets out a shaky breath at the blessed relief.

He’s going to kill Deputy Pratt. As soon as Rook has been delivered to the Father, Pratt is going to die in the most drawn-out, painful way John can imagine. He’ll deprive Pratt of everything: food, water, sleep, _dignity_. He’ll take Pratt to his studio, spend many long days carefully mutilating his face and body and mind. He’ll draw apologies from Pratt’s lips, let sin bubble out of his veins, mingling with his blood. And then, when Pratt begs to be cleansed, begs for forgiveness and atonement, John will _refuse_. There’s simply too much sin for even the Father’s grace to purify. He’ll gleefully drag Pratt back to the surface, hang him upside-down in a public place— the main street of Fall’s End, or maybe at the burnt-out remains of the Grill Streak in the Whitetails. He’ll set Pratt alight, settle back and bask in the glory of his pained, animalistic screaming, until his lungs give out and the flames _consume_ him.

John nods. Yes. Good plan. He shifts his weight a little, presses the ice pack into a slightly different position, one that offers better relief, and tries not to think about the pain. He’s got half a mind to go back to the atrium, sprawl across the couch. He hates kitchens. The help belongs here, not him, and he’s always a little uncomfortable and out-of-place, even when his siblings are cooking. Still, he’s not about to move until the swelling goes down, so John lets himself lean forward, face pressing into the cool marble of the island. He’ll move soon.

John closes his eyes, breathes deeply, swallows back as the nausea slowly dissipates. He’ll have Joseph over, once all this is done. They’ll sit together, drinking hot cocoa and marshmallow, thinking about how this all went wrong. Joseph will have his New Eden, even if John has to personally burn down this old world to see it done: he’ll gladly burn Pratt, at least. And all the other sinners, too.

The rest of the day passes excruciatingly slowly: eventually John feels able to get up, shoving the ice pack back in the freezer. He heads to his office, picks up all his papers and spends the better part of two hours sorting and re-filing them, stacking his books on the correct shelves in the appropriate order. He picks up his law degree, takes the paper out of the broken frame, and stashes it in a drawer. The frame gets tossed on the floor, swept up with the rest of the glass and the debris. The broken cross is set gently on the windowsill, to be fixed later.

Whitehorse comes knocking eventually, as John’s rewarding himself with a nice bourbon and a few minutes’ (well, okay, half an hour, possibly longer) lounging on his chaise longue. The sun’s setting now, amber light streaming through the back windows.

“Dinner’s ready, if you’re hungry,” he says, and so John shrugs and follows him to the dining room, where the other officers are arranging themselves around the dining table. John gets his usual seat: not at the head of the table, but the seat to the left. Joseph, of course, would always sit at the head of the table, Faith at the right. Jacob would sit opposite Joseph if they had extra guests, or next to John if there were none. John wonders, briefly, if the seating arrangement is on purpose. He shakes his head: probably not. Rook’s at the head of the table now, setting a bowl of salad on the table before taking his seat. Whitehorse takes the seat next to John, Hudson to Rook’s right. Pratt is next to her, and Burke’s taken the end seat. The only good thing about the setup is that Rook has kept his word, cleaned up the broken glass from earlier, the paraphernalia carefully stacked in a pile in the display cabinet, ready for John to arrange as he wishes.

Rook dishes out the portions, handing John a steaming bowl of chilli and rice.

“Do you want to say grace?” Rook asks, and Hudson glares at him. So does Burke, and Pratt doesn't seem to give a shit, leaning forward to snag a dinner roll from the basket in front of him.

“Really?” she hisses.

“Not particularly,” John replies, and he shoves his spoon into his bowl, taking a large mouthful. It’s very good. It’s very spicy.

Hudson looks disappointed that John can handle the heat, and Pratt simply smirks at him. Burke doesn’t say a word to John, which is telling— his earlier threats must have worked.

Sometimes Whitehorse or Rook will attempt to start a conversation, but it always dies out quickly.

“How are the defences coming on?” Rook asks.

“So-so,” Burke says, and that’s all.

John doesn’t speak, save for the few questions Rook and Whitehorse direct at him.

“Didn’t see you around earlier,” Whitehorse says. “You do anything special this afternoon?”

“Just cleaning,” John replies, and he pointedly ignores Burke’s scoff and Pratt’s cackle in favour of another mouthful of beans and rice.

Rook gives everybody a bowl of fruit salad, leftovers from Gardenview and Sunrise Farm and the canned fruit still left in the larder. They eat in near-silence. John waits until Rook stands to clear the plates before leaving the room, heading up to his bedroom the long way: out the back door, up the stairs next to the office. He doesn’t offer to help clean up, and nobody calls him out.

John takes a shower, has to fiddle with the dials for a while ‘cause whoever used his bathroom while he was gone fucked up his normal shower setting. Eventually he gets the water how he likes it, softly blanketing him in warmth. There’s no more swelling from Pratt’s earlier assault, so he jerks off ‘cause this is the first time he’d had any real privacy in, like, weeks and this is the longest dry spell he’s had since his sex addiction therapy ended. He imagines Holly, so glad to see him alive and well that she’s dripping with want, begging him to bend her over his desk within seconds of seeing his face. She’s always so good to him— enthusiastic, eager, never outstays her welcome, always leaves him with a soft kiss to his temple as he’s tucking himself back into his clothes, semen dripping down her thigh under her skirt. That’s why he calls on _her_ so often. The others tend to linger— hardened Chosen trying to share his bed the whole night, eager young women looking for a high-ranking husband instead of a simple exchange of services. Messy. 

John comes too quickly, unsatisfied, but too tired to wait out his refractory period and try again.He scrubs himself down until his skin is pink, rinses lather and then conditioner from his hair. He trims his beard with a small pair of scissors in front of the mirror, then brings out his electric razor for his body hair. Smooths beard oil into his facial hair, thoroughly moisturises his skin, sprays on his favourite deodorant and sticks a new toothbrush into his mouth, trying to relish the fact that he’s finally using toothpaste that _works_.

It takes a long time for sleep to take him— his body has almost gotten used to the shitty, lumpy mattress of the prison, his soft, springy bed almost _too_ comfortable. But he falls asleep eventually, doesn’t wake up until Rook pounds on his door, a hoarse shout seeping through the cracks: “John! You're leaving in an hour! Coffee’s downstairs.”

Today passes just as excruciatingly as yesterday. As Whitehorse promised, John is taken back to Fall’s End, spends a couple hours digging spikes out of the spire’s roof with the help of a cherry picker. Rook is off on his little bunker quest, Pratt and Hudson with him. Nick Rye, the bastard, stops by for an hour or so, chats with Whitehorse and Pastor Jerome and Mary May, taunts John as much as Whitehorse will allow— which is not very much, surprisingly.

“I appreciate that the two of you have history,” John can hear Whitehorse’s words at the very edge of his hearing, almost drowned out by the scraping of his hammer against the spike, “but Seed here is tryin’ his best and I’d be much obliged if you could let him be.”

John’s almost pleased to hear that, because it means his plan is working, until Whitehorse finishes his little speech: “He’ll work better if he’s not pissed off.” The words weigh heavily: Whitehorse is just being his usual, confrontation-shy self. The _coward_. Oh, how John _hates_ him.

“I guess I can do that,” Nick grouses. “But only ‘cause it’s you, you hear?”

John and Whitehorse are given sandwiches at the Spread Eagle— no testicles this time, just peanut butter and jelly. Mary May tosses a bag of barbecue chips and a couple apples on the table, and that’s that.

After lunch, Whitehorse escorts John back to the ranch, heading up to the guard tower for the radio shift change with Burke. John spends most of the afternoon re-arranging his display cabinet, disliking the end result, and re-arranging it once more, with precisely the same result.

Rook and the others arrive back when the sun is close to setting, when John’s finally given up on the display cabinet, sitting out back with a cigar in one hand and a pencil in the other, sketching out the gorgeous forested landscape behind his home. He doesn’t know what Burke’s up to, doesn’t care.

Dinner consists of steak and potato and vegetables, and it’s just as awkward as the day before. The steak is apparently from what’s left of Kellett’s, which earns John a dirty glare from Hudson: those people had been her neighbours. Whatever.

Sleep is difficult, again, and this time John doesn’t wake up ’til noon.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER TOOK SO LONG TO WRITE OH MY GOD
> 
> Apologies for the disjointed nature of this one... my to-edit list is getting real long, haha.

Nothing much happens. John wakes up, bleary-eyed and unmotivated, at noon. He performs his usual morning routine: ablutions, grooming, dressing. Then he heads downstairs, and doesn’t meet anybody on the way.

Deputy Rook is already in the kitchen when John arrives, sitting hunched over a bowl of oatmeal like his life depends on it. Judging by the dark circles beneath his eyes, it might. He clearly didn’t sleep at all— he was probably listening out for Joseph’s broadcast all night.

“Have you heard from Joseph yet?” John asks, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the drip pot. Deputy Rook looks up from his oatmeal, swallows thickly.

“Not yet,” Rook says.

“Not even a eulogy for Rachel?”

Rook shakes his head.

That’s surprising. Joseph had started broadcasting the eulogies for Jacob and John within _hours_. John stirs a little sugar and creamer into his cup.

“You don’t think he knows, do you?” Rook asks, and he sounds so hesitant, so unsure of himself that John could almost swear that it’s a different person speaking.

“If your friends are doing their jobs right, he can’t.”

Rook is silent for a moment, pushing oatmeal around his bowl.

“How many Faiths have there been?”

John shrugs, takes a sip of coffee, nearly moans at the taste. It’s _good_ — oh, so good. He’ll never complain about drip coffee again, not after suffering through that shit they served at the prison.

“Four?” he guesses.

“Are you asking me or telling me?” Rook asks, slowly. He’s frowning up at John now, oatmeal apparently abandoned.

“Telling,” he says, even though he’s not really sure. Selena had been the first Faith, followed by Lana and then a girl whose face and name John can’t quite remember because she was only around for a few weeks (maybe more than one girl, to be honest) and then finally Rachel.

“Hm,” Rook turns his attention back to his bowl, eats another spoonful. He looks back up. “Did Joseph write eulogies for them?”

“Sort of,” John says. There had been announcements: that the current Faith had unfortunately come to her end, and then another one, a few days afterward, sharing the good news of the new Faith’s ascension. “Not the same as Jake and I, though.”

Rook frowns, but he doesn’t say anything else.

There’s a moment of silence. John takes a couple more sips of coffee, tries to enjoy the moment: the way the golden dawn light streaks through the window, catching on the rim of John’s coffee cup, sparkling on the edge of Rooks’s irises, the way the iron-wrought decorations on the windows cast their shadows upon the far wall.

“Did Joseph bring them into the family, or was it you?”

John looks up. Rook’s got that intense look on his face again. Like he’s mad, but he’s not sure who or what he’s supposed to be mad at.

“Joseph,” he says. “I just handled the paperwork— they weren’t officially adopted, but someone had to deal with the death certificates and their estates.”

“Hm,” Rook says, and his eyes narrow again. He finishes his oatmeal, sets the bowl and spoon to soak in the sink.

“What’s on the agenda for today?” John asks. He’d like to avoid Pratt and Hudson.

“Hudson’s listening for the announcement until six or so,” Rook says. “Burke and Whitehorse went to Fall’s End. Pratt is checking the ranch for anything that might be useful for the confrontation, or for protecting what’s left of the civilians.”

“He’ll want to check the munitions store downstairs,” John says. “The door code is Jacob’s birthday.”

“I’ll tell him that,” Rook says, and John doesn’t miss the way his mouth tightens at the mention of Jacob.

“I’m going fishing down at the boat launch, gonna catch us some dinner,” Rook adds. “Sheriff’s orders. You can join me if you want.”

John blinks— there’s no way he’s serious, is he? Deputy Rook _does_ remember that John nearly died there less than a fortnight ago, doesn’t he?

“I’ll pass,” he says, and Rook simply nods, leaving the room without another word.

John drinks his coffee. He fixes himself a sandwich— he’s no chef, but even he can put together peanut butter and bread— and eats it. He glares at the clock: it’s almost two.

Eventually, John heads back to the atrium. He’ll curl up on the couch, read something, try to stash the other Books of Joseph somewhere Pratt can’t destroy them.

John doesn’t find a book he wants to read in the bookcases lining the living room, so he heads to the dining room. He doesn’t find anything there, either. He rolls his eyes. All these hundreds of books, and not even one of them appeals?

John flops into the armchair next to the bookshelf, grits his teeth. Tries to force himself to relax. He turns his head, glares at the supplies Pratt’s piled onto the dining table. And then something catches his eye.

The answering machine on the side table near the stairs has a green light on.

He can’t remember if it was like that yesterday, or the day before. It definitely wasn’t on the last time he’d been in his house, some… what, three weeks before Rook’s botched Atonement?

John doesn’t usually check his messages. Someone else does it for him, dutifully recording the important ones and relaying the information to him instead. Anything urgent usually goes to his cellphone.

John heads over, presses the ‘play’ button.

“You have a new message,” the answering machine says, cheerfully. “Sunday, October twenty-eight. Seven oh-three PM.”

Sunday?

Ever since the Reaping began, time has blurred, each day segueing into the next in an exhausting haze of Cleansings and Confessions and Atonements, punctuated by erratic bouts of violence, courtesy of Rook. John can’t be certain, but he’s fairly sure that was the day Joseph had issued his judgement. Who on earth would have tried to call John then? At this location? Perhaps it had been someone passing on the news that John had been captured by Rook…

Joseph’s voice fills the room, slightly slurred by static.

“After all the atonements, all the confessions, all that you’ve done for me and Eden’s Gate… It’s not enough, is it, John?”

John closes his eyes, dread curling in his stomach. A message from Joseph, addressed to John, created after his excommunication, likely after the eulogy. It can only be further judgement. And John can only accept whatever Joseph decrees.

“Cast away your past. You need to open up your heart. You need to see that there is more love, all around you. All the pain and suffering you’ve spread will not help us in the long run. These actions will only feed the sin inside you. It will grow stronger. It will convince you to do wicked things. Those you scar too deeply, they will heal. They will become carriers of your sin. They will spread that sin to others.”

More damnation. He’d done his best. He’d apologised to Joseph, hadn’t he? What more can Joseph possibly _want_?

John swallows. He doesn’t want to listen any more. Yet he can’t do anything else.

“I’ve seen your death in a vision. You’re destined to be slain by your own sin. It will come back around in a new form. It’s only a matter of when. I’ve seen you die young. I’ve seen you die old. The difference between the two outcomes is how much love you let into your heart.”

What is _that_ supposed to mean?

How much love he can let into his heart… that’s vague, even by Joseph’s standards. John is plenty loving already— he’s cared for the flock and the sinners alike, hasn’t he? He loves his family, doesn’t he?

“I pray that you hear these words before it’s too late. I want to see you become an old man in the paradise we prepared for.”

The words are kind, but the threat is clear: John needs to do _something_ in order to be re-accepted by Joseph, and there’s a time limit.

“I love you, brother. I love you.”

Relief floods John’s veins, though Joseph’s threat still hangs heavy over his head. Joseph has not entirely forsaken him. Joseph wants John to succeed in his task. There is tangible hope.

There’s so much to unpack here. So much to plan. He needs a drink.

John heads to his office, and finds, to his dismay, that he only has enough whiskey left for a single measure. The sinners seem to have already found the other bottles of spirits— the ones that weren’t stashed away for post-Collapse life in New Eden. He uncaps the bottle, takes a moment to savour the smooth burn as he swallows the liquor. It’s good, takes the edge off his anxiety, but he needs more. He can’t touch the stuff in the bunker, lest he wants to go straight-edge in the post-apocalypse. God, where else did he keep the stuff?

Oh. John has some beer stashed around the ranch, although he doubts that anything survived the sinners’ ransacking. Although… he’d hidden some in the boathouse, hadn’t he? A small crate he’d had confiscated from a Spread Eagle shipment back in the summer. It’s not very strong stuff, barely one and a half percent, but… well. It’s better than nothing. And being out there will mean he’s less likely to run into Pratt.

John fetches his backpack, which still contains his sketchbook and pencils, his Book of Joseph, Bible and extra water bottles. He leaves his coat where he hung it the night before— on the peg in the atrium. It’s too hot for that. He’ll spend the afternoon drawing, once he’s figured out Joseph’s cryptic warning. Maybe reading Joseph’s scripture will help him think.

There’s a dirt path a stone’s throw from the western porch that leads down to the boat launch. It winds down the easier parts of the rocky terrain, a couple fences erected here and there, where the ground gives way to a steep drop. It’s a pleasant walk, especially in the fine sunny weather they’re having, endless trees and grasses and ferns dotting the hills and the cliffs. The path meanders ‘round the back of the Eden’s Gate Greenhouse, where they’re planning to start re-farming the new world with the seeds stored underneath the ranch. There are sinners patrolling there, too.

“The hell do you think you’re goin’?” one yells, striding forward with a hand on his gun. John looks at him, gaze far more calm and steady than he actually feels. These sinners can’t be trusted. He’s going to put a bullet in John’s head.

“Boat launch,” he says. “I need to talk to Deputy Rook.”

It’s a lie, but they don’t need to know that.

“I bet you do,” the sinner mutters. He gives John a suspicious glare, but takes his hand away from his gun. He flaps his hand, a shoo-ing gesture, and John continues on his way, readjusting the strap on his backpack.

The boathouse is just as he remembers. It looks like the sinners have been enjoying John’s spare barbecue— the main one is up at the house— because there are dishes stacked on the table, empty liquor bottles and dirty glasses beside them.

John rolls his eyes. How typical. Leaving others to do all the hard work.

John heads into the boathouse, pausing for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the sudden darkness. There’s nothing in the entry hall— plenty of tools, a couple cans of paint, so he goes further in. He can see two figures on the jetty, sitting on two camp chairs, facing the waters running west. He squints against the bright sun for a moment: Rook and Pratt. Ugh.

John spots the crate he’s looking for on the right hand side of the boathouse, so he heads over, carefully staying away from the water’s edge. He carefully removes the rope that’s been strategically arranged above it, to obscure the fact it’s a twenty-four-can crate of beer, and opens it. _Yes._ All the cans are in there, just as he remembered. Whole and clean and ready to be drunk.

John grins, clears a space for himself, and settles down. He opens one can, takes a long sip, and takes out his sketchbook. The boathouse interior is pretty plain, but the lines of the wood are interesting, the way the shadows mingle together, the shady interior blurring shapes and colours together.

John starts sketching the main shapes of the oars and the rowboats on the opposite wall. It’s quiet, but he can make out the conversation Pratt and Rook are having over the gentle lapping of the water: this is the gentle, slow part of the Henbane.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Pratt says, in that same quiet monotone he’s used since he arrived at the jail. “I’ve been compromised.”

“If you’re compromised, then so am I,” Rook replies, sounding— again— exhausted.

“It’s not the same,” Pratt replies. “You’re strong. You’ve been able to push past the conditioning.”

There’s a pause. John adds the lines of the fuse box, sharp and clean, contrasting with the soft, rustic look of everything else.

“Which one of us killed Eli Palmer?” Rook asks. “Pretty sure it wasn’t you.”

There’s a sniffling noise, and John nearly rolls his eyes. If Rook didn’t want to feel bad about murdering someone, he probably shouldn’t have done it in the first place.

“He’s not in your head anymore,” Pratt says. His voice is a little damp. A little nasal. “He’s always in mine. I can’t even sit down without hearing him in my head, scolding me. Without feeling his hands on me, correcting my posture and all that shit.” A pause. “Do you know what he did to me? After the arrest? Do you know how he— how I got like this?”

There’s no sound from Rook, but Pratt continues as though encouraged. As he shades, John can’t help but wonder who Pratt is talking about— it can’t be Joseph. One of Jacob’s lieutenants? The Cook was pretty severe, from what little John heard.

“Everything was taken from me. I—“ Pratt sounds like he’s choking for a half-second, and John kind of hopes he is. “I was in a cage, but I couldn’t do a damn thing without permission. Not a single thing. Do you understand? Nothing.”

Pratt doesn’t speak again for a while, and neither does Rook. The sniffling noises continue.

“If I obeyed, he treated me a little more human. I got my uniform back. I got a bucket. I got a blanket. I got human food. And eventually I wasn’t in the cage any more.”

There’s a thumping noise, and Pratt’s voice sounds bitter, disgusted. His words are faster now, more frantic, like he’s afraid he’ll never say them otherwise.

“I was following him around, attending to his every whim. I ironed his clothes. I served his meals. I cut his hair. I trimmed his beard I fed him and I dressed him. I even tied his shoes for him. Sir, yes, sir.”

John nearly drops his pencil.

Jacob. Staci Pratt, the pathetic little snivelling sob that he is, is talking about— no, is _lying_ about Jacob. John knew, of course, that Jacob had taken to using Pratt as an assistant after succeeding in gaining his co-operation. He hadn’t been able to convert Pratt, but Pratt had given in and agreed to assist Jacob however he could. And now Pratt is trying to save face by blaming Jacob for his own mistakes? For his own cowardice?

How _dare_ he?

“He kept testing me, just to see if there was anything left he couldn’t train me to do. And— and there wasn’t. Not a fucking thing. Not—”

There’s a sharp, wet sob, quickly followed by several more. It goes on for a while. It’s very annoying.

John wants to get up, to stride right over there and demand Pratt’s silence— but he can’t. Oh, no, he _can’t._ He can’t admit to eavesdropping when he’s trying to play the role of a perfect hostage for Rook and his stupidity. He can’t throttle the life and the lies right out of Pratt if he’s trying to convert Rook. He’ll kill Pratt. He’ll kill that bastard. But first, he’ll do everything to Pratt that he’s claiming Jacob did to him— Pratt will learn that telling falsehoods is a sin. He’ll learn the true meaning of suffering before John takes the knife to his flesh.

“Did you know, back at the jail, I wanted to set John free?” Pratt’s talking— no, lying— again. He’s louder, now, almost hysterical. “I wanted to wrap him in a blanket and hug him and tell him everything was going to be fine. A forty-year-old asshole who kidnapped and tortured my friends and stole all our shit. Because Jacob Seed’s still in my head, telling me I gotta look after his baby brother.” A loud, broken laugh. “Well, fuck him. Fuck both of them. I fed John dog food, and I kicked him in the balls and I’d do a hundred times worse if you or Whitehorse gave me half a chance.”

“Staci, we have to be better than them,” Rook says, quietly, and his voice is all wobbly, like he’s about to cry.

“They don’t deserve it,” Pratt hisses.

“I know,” Rook replies. “But still…”

“You know what your problem is?” Pratt snaps. “You’re too fucking soft. I’ve seen the way you look at him. It isn’t going to end the way you think it will.”

There’s silence for a moment.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Rook says.

“I don’t know either,” Pratt replies. He laughs, short and sharp and bitter. “This is a goddamn mess. Enjoy your fishing.”

“Stace…” Rook says, and there’s the sound of loud footsteps getting louder. They go behind John, past the boathouse, and eventually he can’t hear them any more.

John stays there for a while, sketch abandoned. There’s no way Jacob was as awful to Pratt as he claims. No way. Jacob is— Jacob _was_ stern and strict, but not cruel. He’s lying. Obviously.

Pratt is a very good liar, being able to cry on command like that. But he’s a liar nonetheless. And he will suffer. 

Eventually, John gets up. He leaves the boathouse, taking his beer and his sketchbook with him. Pratt is nowhere to be seen, thank God. John’s not sure he could control his rage, sin be damned. He heads up the jetty, to where Rook still sits, fishing rod cast into the waters. There’s a cooler beside him, as well as a bucket and a stack of newspaper. He takes a deep breath, to calm himself, and rolls his shoulders. He needs to seem relaxed, like nothing is wrong. 

“Catch anything yet?” John asks, all sunny Southern charm, and Rook startles a little.

“Just one trout,” he says. “In the cooler. I want to get two more at least.”

“Are there many fish around here?” John asks. He’s never tried fishing. He had the jetty built for Jacob, to be honest. Not that Jacob ever had much chance to use it— there’d only been one or two occasions. Joseph had come over with a gift-basket of fruits and vegetables from the Aubrey family. He’d fired up the grill while John lounged in the sun with a book, and they’d all spent a pleasant afternoon eating fresh fish and vegetables and drinking home-made lemonade, courtesy of the faithful at the ranch.

“There are more up at the Lamb of God,” Rook replies. “But it’s further away. I just…” a pause “…I’m tired.”

Obviously, that means that Deputy Rook ought to sleep more and destroy less. Rook doesn’t say anything more, so John turns his attention to the problem at hand.

Love.

It might be a hint at marriage. Joseph had brought it up more frequently as of late— before the Reaping and everything thereafter, anyway. There were pointed remarks: “That Holly is very beautiful, isn’t she? I imagine she has many admirers.” Worse were the heartfelt pleas: “I’m worried about you. You seem lonely as of late, brother.” And each time John had deflected, Joseph had seemed a little sadder and… well, if God told him that John must be married off like some Victorian daughter, then that makes sense. Doing that right now is impossible, though.

If handing over Deputy Rook, thereby showing endless love and compassion for the sinners, doesn’t satisfy Joseph, he’ll promise to marry someone— probably Holly, but it really depends on who’s available and whether Joseph presses for details immediately— at the earliest opportunity.

“I’ve realised something,” he’ll say, grasping Joseph’s hands eagerly, a helpless smile stretched across his mouth. “I’m in love. I’m sorry it took me so long. I’m sorry I was so selfish.”

Are there any more possible meanings of ‘love’ he’s missing? John reaches up, fingers tracing the raised, half-healed scar under his collarbone. Sloth. It’s not merely laziness, but a failure in carrying out one’s duties. A failure to care for one’s community.

Has John failed Eden’s Gate? Not to his knowledge— but perhaps there’s been a lack of enthusiasm lately. Dealing with the sinners is so exhausting, and it was like that even before the Reaping. Endless paperwork and phone calls and e-mails and letters. His schedule had been stuffed— even Joseph needed to make an appointment to see him most weeks. If he’d been lacking in his love for the Project, it was entirely reasonable. But Joseph doesn’t operate on ‘reasonable’. Success is success, failure is failure. Virtue is virtue, sin is sin. 

Nonetheless, John will be better. He’ll promise that to Joseph too, show him an enthusiasm for working even harder to ensure the fruition of Joseph’s most precious vision. And he’ll follow through, too.

“When I was a kid, my mom used to take us to church,” Rook says, breaking the silence. “Used to go every Sunday. It was the first thing she’d do whenever we moved house— find a new church. Then a find new school, then find a new job.”

“You _used_ to go?” John asks. If he’s going to convert Rook, it’ll be useful to know why he’s not particularly religious any more. “What happened?”

Rook looks at him, a withering glare that could sour milk. It’s intense.

“I’m gay,” he says, flatly, and there’s a dangerous kind of sparkling at the very edges of his eyes. “What do you _think_ happened?”

Ah. Rejection.

“It’s bullshit,” Rook hisses, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s all bullshit.”

There’s so much baggage here that John honestly isn’t sure where to start. Rook’s a straightforward kind of man, so maybe a direct approach is best. And although John has no personal experience with most of Rook’s problems, this one he knows all too well.

“Joseph doesn’t care about that,” John says. “He didn’t give a shit when I came out. He just hugged me and dried my tears and told me that I was fearfully and wonderfully made. You have this idea of what Eden’s Gate is like— of what  _Joseph_  is like— and it’s just not accurate. You think that because we’re faithful, our faith must be like the one that cast you aside. It’s not. Joseph is an extremely religious man, but it’s not an orthodox kind of religion. He believes in God, not necessarily in the Bible.”

Rook laughs a sad little laugh, and he sounds exhausted. He leans back on the chair, sniffles slightly.

“Sounds like blasphemy to me,” he says.

“Blasphemy is subjective,” John shrugs. “Fortunately, God is not.”

“You’re still trying to push that your faith is the only real one?” Rook asks, and he laughs, bitterly.

“‘Real’ is an overstatement,” John says, carefully. “Men like Pastor Jeffries aren’t wrong. But they’re not right, either. They’ve only got part of the whole picture.”

“And the rest is Eden’s Gate?” Rook asks, nonplussed.

“And the rest is Eden’s Gate,” John confirms.

“If you say so,” Rook says, with bland disinterest. He turns his attention back to the task at hand, idly dragging his bait through the waters in a slow zig-zag.

John flips his sketchbook open to a new page. The lighting out here is wonderful, even if he does have to wear his sunglasses over his eyes instead of in his hair. He starts with a few faint lines for the distant shore, adding in a few sharp lines for the jetty itself. He blocks in a rough approximation of Rook’s head and shoulders, a bold line for his fishing rod. Rook’s nose is long and straight, and surprisingly hard to capture in pencil, but John manages it. He gets in a few tousled locks of hair, and roughly shades everything in a light grey: Rook’s silhouette may be in the foreground, but the detail is going to be almost exclusively focused on the background.

John adds a few strong lines for the mountains rising above the treeline, starts blocking in the rocks and trees on the distant shore. And then Rook leans forward suddenly, jerks his fishing rod up in a smooth, practiced motion. John can see that the line is taut— he’s caught something.

Rook stands, reels his catch in with no small amount of effort, apparently using every muscle in his body to drag the fish from its home. He nearly falls on his ass when the fish flies from the water, long legs stumbling backward as his catch flaps wildly on the jetty floor.

“Is that a trout?” John asks. It’s far bigger than he thought it would be.

“Sturgeon,” Rook replies. He crouches, tears out the hook in one swift motion. He grabs a handful of newspaper, takes his hunting knife from the sheath strapped to his thigh. He kills the fish swiftly, then sets about cleaning it with a few practiced cuts— it’s disgusting, but oddly satisfying. He wraps the paper around the pile of fish guts, scales, and fins, tossing it into the bucket. The fish carcass and the knife are rinsed off in the river. John opens the cooler lid for Rook, who nods in thanks when he drops the fish inside, stowing his knife away.

“That was fast,” John says.

“I like fishing,” Rook shrugs, rinsing his hands in the river. He dries them roughly on his jeans. "I do this a lot."

There’s an ear-splitting burst of static, and Rook’s got his radio to his mouth in an instant.

“Rook speaking, over,” he says, and there’s a distinctly feminine voice in the static.

“Okay,” Rook says, after a moment. “We’re coming back.”

Rook clips the radio back on his belt.

“Is it Joseph?” John asks, and Rook nods.

It doesn’t take long to get back to the house. Rook buries the contents of the bucket under a shrub before rinsing the bucket clean in the river. Then he carries the cooler back, leaving the rod on the jetty. John gathers his belongings and follows: they head up the dirt road, presumably because that final stretch of footpath is a little precarious, until they reach the point it intersects with the footpath once more. Then it’s less than three minutes before Rook dumps the cooler in the kitchen and John heads up the stairs in the guard tower until he reaches the radio room at the very top. Pratt’s already there, leaning against a console, while Hudson lounges in a wheelie chair, upset as ever to see John.

“You really pissed him off this time,” Pratt says, nonchalantly, as Hudson plays the recording of Joseph’s broadcast.

This time, Joseph’s words are punctuated by ragged breathing, every syllable shaking as it resounds through the static.

“Another seal has been opened,” Joseph says, and John wants to cry at the sheer sadness in his brother’s voice— Joseph has only sounded like this a handful of times before, never in recent years. It’s like Joseph has been crying for days.

“My family… My brothers… My sister…” Joseph manages, and then it’s like a dam has burst, and he’s honest-to-God screaming: “They’ve been taken from me! By a snake in the garden!” 

There’s a wet, nasal sound. A helpless, broken grunt.

“I thought I knew God’s plan…” Joseph croaks. He chokes, and it’s obvious that he’s crying. “But I was wrong. I was blind…”

Another sniffling sound.

“But now I see,” Joseph hisses, regaining a little composure. “You took my family from me so that I could have yours. We will welcome them with open arms, just as we will welcome you.”

A pause, so long that John thinks the recording is finished. Hudson holds up a hand, a gesture to halt.

“We will be waiting for you,” Joseph says. “Where it all began.”

Hudson’s hand goes down. It’s over.

“We’ll head over first thing tomorrow morning,” Rook says. He looks worried, brow furrowed. “John, what did he mean when he said that he would have my family? They’re all in Canada.”

“Probably not your literal family,” John says. He doesn’t really know, to be honest. “Probably just means he’ll try to convert all of you tomorrow.”

“Hm…” Rook scratches his jaw, still looking uneasy.

“I’m nearly finished with the preparations,” Pratt says. “I’ll call the others.”

“Thanks,” Rook says, almost absent-mindedly.

Pratt vanishes, and Rook looks at Hudson.

“You mind playing the other eulogies?” Rook asks. “Just in case there’s something useful there? Start with John’s.”

Hudson shrugs. She flips a couple switches, presses another button, and Joseph’s voice fills the room once more.

“Another seal has been broken…” Joseph’s voice breaks, a half-sob tearing through the speakers in a burst of static. “It brings me great sorrow to announce that my brother, John, will not be joining us in Eden. He is dead."

There’s a long moment of crushing silence, before Joseph speaks again. 

“My brother, John, was loved by few and loathed by many. He was misunderstood by all, except me. He was not born a monster. He was just a child when our family was torn apart. He was loving. Kind. Full of joy…”

There’s a deep, static-y intake of breath. 

“He was easily preyed upon,” Joseph continues. “John was not perfect. Sometimes he was not even good. He could be cruel. Vicious. Petty. He struggled with sin more than any of us. Time and time again, I begged him to let go of his sin, to let love into his heart, and he could not.” 

Joseph is audibly crying now, heaving breaths between choked syllables. 

“He was my brother. I miss him.”

God. John misses him too. It won’t be long now.

John quietly leaves before Hudson can play Jacob’s eulogy. He heads back to his room, opens his Book of Joseph and reads it, the words anchoring him to reality. He lets relief wash over him: everything is going to be fine. Not ‘everybody is alive and well’ fine, but ‘making the best of a bad situation’ fine.

The sun is setting by the time Rook stops by to call John for dinner. As always, the food is decent: the fresh sturgeon from earlier has been lightly fried, and someone’s found decent potatoes and green beans to go with it.

Tonight, even Whitehorse and Rook drop their friendly charade, eating in stony silence. When he finishes his last mouthful, John drains his glass of apple juice and makes to stand up— Whitehorse has a firm hand on his shoulder immediately.

“Oh, no,” Whitehorse says. “You skipped out the last two nights. It’s your turn to help wash up.”

Ugh.

Pratt snorts, lets out a short cackle as Whitehorse hands John a stack of dirty plates, directs him into the kitchen. John dumps the dishes into the sink, and Whitehorse starts running the water, squeezing dish soap onto a cloth.

“Come on,” Whitehorse says, holding out the soapy cloth, and John reluctantly steps forward, rolling up his sleeves.

“I haven’t done this before,” John admits. Whitehorse pauses, and gestures to a clean tea towel folded on the counter.

“Then I’ll wash, and you can dry. This is your kitchen, I’m sure you know where everything goes.”

They work in silence, but unlike at dinner, this time it’s comfortable. Whitehorse cleans each item thoroughly, rinsing well before placing it on the draining board. John carefully stacks everything, returns each item to its rightful place. It takes a while— there’s a lot of plates, and lot of cutlery, and a surprising amount of pans. Still, it doesn’t take as long as John feared, not with both of them working.

“Good job,” Whitehorse says, as John folds the tea towel, placing it on the counter once more. He rinses off his hands, wipes the sink down. “You get yourself a good night’s sleep, you hear me?”

John simply nods, too tired, too nervous about tomorrow’s confrontation to argue. When he returns to the atrium, Burke and Pratt are nowhere to be seen. Rook and Hudson are sitting on the couch— Hudson is polishing her standard-issue pistol, while Rook is, surprisingly, reading a Book of Joseph. He glances up, catching John gaping.

“I’m trying to get inside his head,” Rook explains. Hudson scoffs, but doesn’t do anything else.

John goes upstairs, runs through his nightly routine, and flops down on his bed. There’s a knot of anxiety in his stomach at the thought of seeing Joseph again. He should be happy, but he knows that he’s committed too many sins while away from the Project. 

It’s hard to get to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, regarding the whole thing with Jacob… I realised, as I was writing this story, that having John fully aware of what Jacob has been doing to Pratt and Rook and everybody else in the Whitetails would make it even more difficult to redeem him than it already is. I figured that, as the baby of the family, Joseph and Jacob might obscure certain facts from him (and probably also from Faith). Again, this isn’t intended to woobify John, or to justify his behaviour, or anything like that. It’s simply to make redeeming John (and Faith) a little easier, while also demonstrating that Joseph is genuinely fearful of his apocalyptic visions, and to strengthen the idea that Jacob will do absolutely anything to protect his family, even things he feels they may disapprove of.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is short, and a little strange. But I've been looking forward to posting it for a long time now. I don’t think the sex scene is enough to warrant a change of rating, but if that sort of thing makes you uncomfortable then you should skip from the line beginning [“Eyes up here”] to [“Seriously, John?”], approx. 5 paragraphs.

Sound always carries strangely in John’s studio, down in the bunker. There’s a slight echo, growing more pronounced as the sounds get louder, the concrete and the metal bouncing everything back. It’s truly remarkable: a single scream can harmonise with itself, one sinner’s pleas for mercy can become almost choral. That’s part of why John likes his studio so much.

Deputy Rook’s screams have been particularly beautiful. Each howl, each shriek, each cry of pain almost musical in this room. They’ve been here for _hours_.

Rook hisses in pain as John wipes antiseptic over his wounds. ‘WRATH’ was healing up, so John had to re-open the wounds, re-carve the wonky letters, try to make them elegant again. There are more sins, of course, but he’s not quite sure what to add. ‘ENVY’ doesn’t seem right, and neither does ‘GREED’. ‘GLUTTONY’ is right out: Rook’s generous to a fault. ‘SLOTH’, too, doesn’t fit, because Rook is always busy doing something for his community, even if they’re all evil sinners who don’t deserve it.

John rakes his eyes over Rook’s long, lean body. There’s a place John knows he should add _something_ , right under Rook’s pectoral. He can’t quite tear his eyes away from the empty spot, where Rook’s gold-brown skin is shimmering with sweat, his muscles tense with pain. Further down, there’s a spot on his hipbone, right above the waistband of his jeans, where he might put ‘LUST’— except… no, that’s not right either. Rook didn’t turn away from God because of his sexuality: it was God that turned from him. Or those that claimed to act on God’s behalf, anyway.

Eventually, John has to turn away from the torture rack, back to his workbench. He puts the cloth and the antiseptic bottle back in their places on the surgical tray. He’ll need them again soon. He pauses for a moment to re-roll his silk sleeves back up above his elbow. He’d rather not ruin this shirt too.

“We’re getting there,” John says. “You’re almost done. Just one last sin displayed for the world to see.”

Rook closes his eyes, resigned. He nods as John turns his attention to his tools again.

John wipes blood from his favourite screwdriver, puts it to one side to be thoroughly sanitised later. He picks up his hunting knife, the one he just used, a gift from Jacob many years back. He wipes the blade free of sticky blood, then raises it once more.

Pride is the right sin, he decides. It doesn’t eclipse Rook’s soul like wrath does, but it’s there, an unmistakable undercurrent running through his every action. He thinks he’s better than the Father— than the Voice of God. That cannot be allowed to continue. It must be cut out before it can rot the rest of his heart.

Deputy Rook’s eyes follow John as he moves, steadying the blade above Rook’s sweat-slicked skin. He nods, a silent ‘yes’, and John slowly sinks the knife down, parting Rook’s skin in a series of straight, shallow cuts.

Rook’s head is thrown back, his jaw clenched tight. He groans and whimpers, jerking his wrists vainly against the cuffs that bind him to the rack. Another drop of salt water drips from Rook’s jaw to his collarbone, rolling slowly over the curve of his pectoral muscle before seeping into a fresh cut— Rook hisses, a pained sob escaping his lips.

“It’s nearly finished,” John promises, working as efficiently as he can. He finishes the ‘E’ hastily, it’s just a little crooked, before finally dousing the wounds with antiseptic like before. Rook actually does start sobbing then, heaving breaths that wrack his entire body. John places one cool hand on Rook’s stomach as he cleans the cuts, doing his best to soothe his new convert.

Rook breathes heavily when it’s all done, black-brown eyes open wide as they drip salt water. He blinks his tears away, the hitching and rasping of his breath slowly starting to settle.

“It’s over,” John says. “It's all over. You’re clean now. One of us.”

Rook nods, closing his eyes for a moment as he takes another deep breath. John watches him for a moment, before turning back to the workbench, wiping his knife clean.

“John…” Rook croaks, and John glances over his shoulder. Rook clears his throat, makes steady eye contact. “John.”

“What is it?” John asks, and he’s got a worried hand on Rook’s shoulder, pressed close to him before he can think about it.

Rook raises one hand, places it on John’s cheek, gently stroking his beard. The look in his eyes is strange, all soft and intense at the same time. A ghost of a smile quirks Rook’s lips.

“Thank you,” Rook says, and his smile widens, blossoming into a gentle smile of genuine gratitude. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against John’s.

That’s unexpected. Most sinners curse John out. Even the faithful don’t thank him, they just nod or shake their heads obediently, running off at the first opportunity they get to escape their Baptist.

“Excuse me?”

“I said ‘thank you’, John,” Rook says, and it's like he's filled with a new vitality, now he's no longer crushed under the weight of his sins, now they've finally been sloughed away by John's delicate work.

It’s… well, it’s nice. It’s nice to be appreciated.

Without warning, Rook shifts and suddenly he’s kissing John, his other hand carding through John’s hair, ruining his perfectly-coiffed hairstyle. Not that John cares enough to complain right now: Rook’s lips are chapped, but he knows how to use them, parting just-so to let his teeth worry gently at John’s lower lip.

Deputy Rook is really good at kissing. Much more than John expected— he’s _perfect_. His mouth is all warm and soft in just the right ways, open and inviting. John’s got one hand pressed against the hard muscle of Rook’s abdomen, and he’s snaking the other one up to Rook’s stubbled jaw. Rook tilts his head a little more, flicks his tongue into John’s mouth, teasing him mercilessly. John sighs, lets himself relax into Rook’s hands, and that’s when Rook grabs him by his bare shoulders and pulls him down onto soft sheets.

“Someone’s eager,” John laughs, cracking his eyes open when Rook breaks the kiss for breath. “Didn’t we just agree that lust is a sin?”

Rook grins, rolls them over so John’s on top, their bare legs tangling together for a moment.

“Lust is,” he says warmly, trailing one hand down to John’s ass, squeezing eagerly. “But love isn’t.”

Rook is shameless. As much as John wants to protest that the cock pressing up against his hipbone, all hot and hard and eager, definitely counts as lust, the promise in Rook’s eyes makes him hesitate. ‘Love’ implies there’ll be more of this. _Much_ more. John can’t help but glance down: he gets as far as the scarred-over, mostly-healed ‘PRIDE’ on Rook’s torso before Rook catches his jaw, drags John’s face back up.

“Eyes up here,” he laughs, and he kisses John again and it’s like his blood catches fire. John doesn’t do very much thinking after that.

John’s done this a hundred times before. Probably more than that, if he’s honest. It’s like his body is on autopilot. He grinds their hips together, blindly fumbles for lotion on the bedside table, takes them both in one hand, strikes up a rhythm that has Rook gasping, gets John’s blood pumping loud in his ears— he doesn’t look down, no matter how much he wants to. No, he focuses on Rook’s eyes whenever they part for breath, losing himself in that comforting void.

Rook smiles against John’s lips, whispering praise into his mouth— _God, so good, should’ve known, should’ve joined sooner, don’t stop, please, more, yes_ — and bucks into John’s fist, his nails digging into John’s shoulder and his ass. John grins, bites back a groan, does his best to take it slow, enjoy this for all it’s worth, tease Rook a little, the maddening bastard that he is. Even so, it doesn’t take long before Rook’s movements start getting a little desperate, before John can feel the familiar tension of orgasm building.

John bites his lip, fucks his fist a little more eagerly. He wants to see Rook’s face when he gets off— wants to see him come undone by John’s own hands. Rook seems to have a similar idea, because his eyes are narrowed with concentration, fixed on John’s face, a red flush on his high cheekbones as he rolls his hips frantically against John’s and—

“Seriously?” a familiar voice asks, from somewhere near the bedroom door. John whips his head toward the source of the sound, his blood running cold.

Jacob leans against the dresser, arms crossed, a look of annoyance painted over his face. He’s pale and dishevelled, a red stain slowly seeping across his undershirt.

“This,” Jacob says, clearly unimpressed by John’s lack of self-control, punctuating his words with a pointed finger, “is exactly why Joseph is always pissed at you. Even for you, this is low.”

John breaks away from Rook, desperately scrabbles for something— anything, the sheets will do— to cover his shame, to regain some small semblance of dignity. Jacob’s seen John at his most pathetic, at his most broken— Jacob's walked in on countless drug-fuelled orgies and some extremely unsafe, insane, barely-consensual acts. But he's right— this is worse than anything John's done before. This is _so_ much worse. Deputy Rook might be unfairly hot and devastatingly nice and the best kisser in Montana, but he’s still a _murderer_.

“Jake, this isn’t—“ John stammers, and he falters as Jacob collapses, grey-faced, sticky brown blood seeping into the carpet. He jerks away from Rook— Jacob needs help— and there’s the distinctly metallic sound of a gun being cocked right next to his ear. His gaze is drawn away from his brother’s bloody corpse, back toward Rook, and the Deputy’s got his standard-issue pistol in hand, aimed right at John. His carefully-pressed green uniform is bloodstained, and so are his shiny boots. Although he’s still reclined, his posture and his expression both scream professional detachment.

“Sorry, John,” Deputy Rook says, the dark brown of his eyes cool and cruel again. Cold metal scrapes against John’s forehead, the barrel of the gun pressed firmly against his skull. “I promised I’d see justice done.”

Rook squeezes the trigger, and John blinks awake to darkness, sweat-soaked sheets tangled around his legs, a sob caught in his throat. He scrabbles blindly at his bedside table, turns the lamp on.

There’s nobody else in here. No Jacob and certainly no Deputy Rook. The only person here is John, his head full of whirling thoughts, his arousal the damning evidence of his betrayal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter will not be up until next weekend at the very earliest (it'll probably be after that, to be honest). It's going to be very long, and I'm actually heading off on a trip with my family for a few days so I won't have very much time to write. 
> 
> Until then, I hope you enjoy this.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD THIS TOOK SO LONG TO WRITE. It's a monster. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

John rises with the sun, the pink and orange of the dawn streaking through the windows onto his bedroom walls. 

He’s exhausted already. What little sleep he did manage had been restless, punctuated by long hours spent staring at the ceiling, praying to forget the phantom feeling of warm lips and heated skin against his own, guilt weighing down his stomach like lead, fear of the Father’s disappointment bubbling through his blood.

It takes a long time to dress and groom. He needs to show Joseph that he’s a changed man. That he’s worthy of being part of Eden’s Gate. That he’s no longer a spoilt, overgrown child in an adult body, that he can be restrained and humble and everything else Joseph wants. 

John eschews his most expensive clothes, goes for one of his simple Sunday service suits instead: the shirt is pale blue cotton, the pants and buttonless jacket are plain, well-cut navy linen. He leaves the shirt unbuttoned at the collar, just enough to show the red lines of his half-healed SLOTH, but not quite enough to show the missing key around his neck. He slips on a comfortable, slightly worn pair of loafers.

While Jacob had always playfully teased John for his vanity, Joseph had greatly disapproved of it. In the beginning, that had been such a minor sin. Compared to John’s extreme hedonism: his addiction to cocaine and his recreational drug habits, his heavy drinking, his constant stream of prostitutes and one-night stands and short-lived relationships, his insatiable need for extravagance and luxury in every aspect of his life… taking pride in his appearance had been almost nothing. And now that he’s better, now he’s stopped the drugs and he only drinks occasionally and his sex life is under control and he’s funnelled the majority of his wealth into the Project; now that it’s not longer eclipsed by far larger sins, that minor sin of vanity is far less minor.

John skips most of his usual grooming routine, simply does what is necessary for basic cleanliness: he washes his face, combs his hair, brushes and flosses his teeth. He doesn’t bother with hair gel or concealer or moisturiser or even an emery board to fix his too-long nails. His cufflinks and his Rolex stay on the dresser— his only indulgence is an Eden’s Gate ring on his left hand. 

John puts his coat on, making sure that he has the photographs of Jacob and the rest of their family in one pocket, and heads to the atrium. The sky is clear and although it’s pretty cold right now, it looks like it’ll be another unseasonably warm November day. 

“Morning, Princess,” Deputy Pratt says, glancing up at John when he opens the door, starts down the staircase. He’s leaning over the dining table, which is loaded with guns and ammunition and assorted throwables. There’s a small pile of first-aid kits at the other end. Burke is there, too. He gives John a cursory glare before returning to his work: strapping as many weapons to his body as humanly possible. Whitehorse and Hudson are poring over a map, marking out what looks like the escape routes from Joseph’s compound: the meeting place looks like the Hope County Jail, presumably due to its more defensible position.

“Coffee’s in the kitchen,” Whitehorse says, so John heads on through. 

There’s nobody in the kitchen, the pristine counters and neatly-arranged shelves as unwelcoming as always. John glances out of the window: there are a couple sinners patrolling the grounds, but no Rook. He pours himself a cup from the drip pot, then returns to the atrium.

“Wasn’t there another one of you locusts around here somewhere?” John asks. 

“Kim Rye went into labour last night,” Hudson replies, in lieu of an actual answer. 

“Rookie drove them to the clinic,” Whitehorse says. “He called earlier— he’s on his way back.”

Hope County Clinic is on the other side of Holland Valley. What ought to be a fifteen-minute drive actually takes closer to forty minutes, purely because of the shitty, winding dirt roads that lead there. Good. There’s still some time before John has to face Deputy Rook again. It’s not that he’s afraid— no, there’s no way Rook could possibly know the strangely erotic contents of John’s half-remembered dreams— but he is deeply uncomfortable.

The dream probably doesn’t mean anything. It’s probably just because John hasn’t gotten laid in— God, how long has it been? Three weeks?— and Rook is the only person in close proximity who doesn’t treat him like complete shit. Well, there’s Whitehorse, but he’s been quite explicit about how much he distrusts John, how much he sees him as a monster. In any case, all John needs to do is to find Holly (or Jeremiah, or Chase, or Jennifer, Audrey, or maybe even Stephenson) once he’s safely underground, surrounded by his adoring flock, and spend a couple hours getting all this stress and tension fucked right out of his body. Outside of Joseph’s earshot, of course.

It’s going to be fine. 

John nods to Whitehorse, and lounges on the couch. There’s a Book of Joseph on the coffee table, presumably the same one Deputy Rook had been reading the night before. He flips it open, basks in the Word of his beloved prophet. It doesn’t fill the gnawing pit of worry opening in his stomach, but it does help steady him somewhat. Joseph will be angry, but he will also be forgiving. 

All John has to do is convince Rook to walk away. 

It should be easy. But then again, converting Rook should also have been easy and so far he’s failed at that. Maybe he’s doomed to fail. Maybe that’s why Joseph—

No. 

No, John tells himself. He can give no quarter, cannot allow doubt to creep into his heart. He will lead Rook to Eden’s Gate. He must succeed. There is no alternative.

There’s a soft click behind John, startling him from his thoughts. He glances up from his page, Joseph’s call-to-arms, and his heart stops for a split second. 

As though summoned by John’s brief moment of self-doubt, Deputy Rook strides into the atrium. There’s breathless delight etched across his face despite his clear exhaustion. Somehow, he manages to look even worse than yesterday, his skin sallow and grey, dark circles somehow even darker, more bruise-like, beneath his eyes. Did he sleep at all?

“Kim is doing great,” Rook announces, to the room at large, as he heads over to the dining table. “Baby Rye is eight pounds, perfectly healthy, and in possession of the strongest set of lungs in the county. She’s adorable.”

John fights the urge to groan. Now that his child has been born, Nick Rye is going to be even more insufferable than usual. Still, John’s pretty sure he could manage a couple jabs about how he “doesn’t see the family resemblance” if pressed. 

“What’d they call her?” Hudson asks. Rook’s smile falters ever-so-slightly. 

“Carmina,” he admits. “Was either that or ‘Nicola’, I reckon.”

John snorts. How typical of Nick Rye, to name his daughter after that yellow monstrosity. The greedy, self-centred bastard. Honestly, John feels sorry for the baby, having a father like that. 

“About time we had some good news ‘round here,” Whitehorse says. “Say, Rook, you get to sleep at all?”

“A little, when Kim was with the midwife,” Rook shrugs. “I’ll be fine. I’ll sleep while you’re on the way to Missoula.”

Whitehorse nods, but he doesn’t look happy. 

“Coffee’s still hot,” he replies, gesturing toward the kitchen door. 

Things happen quite quickly after that. Rook divests himself of his weapons, mug of coffee in hand, then heads upstairs. When he reappears, maybe five minutes later, he’s got his green uniform on, clean and pressed and blood-free, his hair now damp and carefully combed. 

“You guys ready to head out?” he asks.

“Pretty much,” Pratt replies. He jerks his head in the direction of John. “Can’t say the same for Princess over there.”

“I’ve been waiting,” John says. He’s not going to waste his energy on an actual retort for Pratt. 

He tucks his Book of Joseph into his coat pocket, and stands. Rook heads over, taking a pair of cuffs from his belt, so John presents his wrists with no argument. There’s no point, and if they feel a little safer like this, it’s less likely that someone like Pratt or Hudson will shoot him. Hudson smirks as she saunters past, holding the front door open for Burke, carrying a half-dozen first-aid kits, who ignores John entirely.

Rook snaps the cuffs on quickly, with practiced grace, and then he hesitates. Stays too close for a moment, the smell of fresh soap and peppermint cloying in the air. His hands are warm, and it almost feels like he’s singeing John’s skin, where he holds John’s wrist.

Rook wets his lips before speaking, the concern etched across his face almost genuine-looking.

“John, you okay?”

“We’re about to head off to arrest my prophet,” John says, scowling. “Is that enough of an answer for you, or should I remind you about the events of the past month?”

Rook averts his eyes, guilty. John remembers the Jacob in his dream, pale and bloody and furious. Jacob will never feel pain again. John’s beloved eldest brother will never speak or breathe or be disappointed in John’s questionable lifestyle choices. All because of this man, who pretends to be so kind and so empathetic, who strings people along with promises of friendship and love and belief, but in the end leaves them cold and alone, shivering and sweating in the dark. He’s cold, so much colder than his exterior betrays. He’s cruel. A murderer. The worst sinner of them all.

Rook presses his lips together tightly.

“I swear, I won’t allow any harm to come to your brother,” Rook says, and John almost believes him.

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” John asks, cocking his head to one side, confusion twisting his brow and his mouth. A split second, for Rook to glance up at John, brown eyes wide with mingled surprise and guilt. “Oh— you were talking about Joseph.”

Rook takes a step back, and jerks his hands away from John as though burnt. He pauses, then turns away and strides through the front door.

Pratt rolls his eyes, makes a show of taking the safety off the shotgun in his hands before following Rook. Whitehorse places a hand on John’s shoulder, guiding him outside. Rook’s already in the driver’s seat of the first van by the time John leaves the house, and he doesn’t look up from making adjustments to the mirrors and the driver’s seat. Hudson and Burke silently join Rook, Hudson climbing into the back while Burke takes the passenger seat.

“We’re taking that one,” Whitehorse says to John, a pitiful attempt at false camaraderie. 

Pratt insists on sitting in the back, with ‘the prisoner’. 

“Just in case, sir,” he says, his eyes never leaving John. “Just in case.”

Whitehorse, notably, doesn’t argue. He’s a two-faced coward. 

Whitehorse drives smoothly and carefully, keeping a careful distance behind Rook’s van. John can just about see the scenery flying past from his seat in the back,  
behind Whitehorse. Pratt doesn’t take his eyes off John for a single moment. It’s very unnerving. 

Whitehorse puts the radio on. 

“You holding up okay, Pratt?” he asks, after a moment. 

“Better than okay, chief. Today, we’re putting away two creepy, middle-aged cult douchebags.”

Middle-aged? Oh, come _on_. John isn’t even being arrested. 

“I’m thirty-two—“ John tries to argue, but Pratt leans forward, glaring in his face. 

“I’ve seen your birth certificate, you vainglorious fuckwad.” 

“Hey! Do I have to come back there?” Whitehorse calls, from the front seat. He takes his eyes off the road for a split second, glancing into the rearview mirror. He’s interrupted by a burst of static from the radio.

“—ease, someone—“ a familiar voice asks. “—help, the Peggies just stormed the place—“ 

Whitehorse fiddles with the dial on the radio, and the voice comes through a little stronger. 

“— County Jail,” Virgil Minkler rasps, through the shoddy signal. “They took Doctor Lindsay. Please— someone needs to help him. We’re too few here, and they injured most of us. We’ll be okay, but we’re in no condition to go after them. Deputy, if you’re listening, we need you.”

“Pratt,” Whitehorse says, and Pratt immediately brings out his own handheld radio. 

“Deputy Pratt speaking,” he says, managing to sound almost completely disinterested. “We’re sending someone over as soon as we can— how many of you are hurt? Over.”

“About twenty, all superficial injuries,” comes the reply, over the main radio. 

“I’ll send medical help,” Pratt says, flatly. “Hang in there.”

Pratt immediately hails someone else— Doctor Perkins, instructing her to drop whatever she’s doing and head over to the Jail, promising that an officer will come and join her shortly. When he puts his radio away, he looks at John with his usual pure, unadulterated hatred. 

“Huh,” is all he says. 

Whitehorse doesn’t speak, either. 

It takes a few more minutes to reach the compound, and John spends most of them looking out of the windscreen at the scenery flying past. Whitehorse reverses through the open gate, presumably for an easier exit later. He cuts the engine, opens the back door for John and Pratt. 

The compound is silent in a way it’s never been before. There are no believers here. There is no birdsong. The breeze does not make the trees whisper. It’s strange. 

“Ain’t nobody here,” Whitehorse says, thoughtfully. 

“I told you so,” John replies. 

Rook has parked his van in much the same way as Whitehorse: reversed, a little closer to the dormitories. Hudson climbs from the back, and gives Pratt a cursory nod: everything is okay so far. Rook strides up to Whitehorse, arms crossed, brow furrowed in worry.

“Kim just hailed me,” Rook says. “Something’s happened to Nick. I need to go over to the Rye’s place as soon as you get Joseph in that helicopter.”

“You do whatever you have to do, son,” Whitehorse says. “Take Hudson with you— you’ll need backup. Pratt’s gonna head over to the Jail with a couple of your friends— Minkler’s sent out a distress call. Couple Peggies kidnapped Charles Lindsay.”

“Okay, sir. I’ll ask—” Rook considers for a moment, clearly worried about the weak and pathetic Doctor Lindsay. “I’ll ask Addie and Grace.”

Burke takes the rifle from his back, carefully removes the safety.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” he says. So they do. 

Rook takes the lead, John behind him. They’re flanked by the others: Pratt and Hudson in front, then Whitehorse and Burke just behind. There’s no sound, save the rhythmic trudging of their own footsteps, the gentle clinking of Rook’s handcuffs on his belt.

The walk to the church feels like a lifetime. John’s sins seems to grow heavier with every step: he can’t help but drag his feet. His stomach rolls with fear and longing. He’s frightened of seeing Joseph again. He’s desperate to see Joseph again. 

The doors to the church are flung open when Rook’s about three or four metres away. And there, stepping out of the dimly-lit hall, is Joseph himself.

John can’t quite remember how to breathe. 

In the grey light of the morning, Joseph looks terrible. He’s thinner than John remembers, his cheekbones too sharp, his collarbone a little too defined, his ribs starting to show, oh-so-slightly, through his skin. He looks like he hasn’t slept for days: his blue eyes are dull and sunken, dark circles beneath them. His skin is pallid. His hair is a mess, greasy strands escaping from his bun. His beard is not neatly groomed, his hands are filthy. The hem of his pants are mud-splattered, dust and dirt embedded about the knees.

He looks sick.

Joseph does not look at John, nor at Whitehorse or Burke, Hudson or Pratt. He simply stares for one long moment at Rook, then raises his eyes to the sky. 

“And the Lamb broke the fifth seal and I saw under the altar the souls of the Martyrs slain because of the Word of God.”

Joseph looks at Rook again, points an accusing finger at him. 

“You’ve made martyrs of my family…” 

John opens his mouth to protest, his stomach twisting into knots: he’s right _here_. He’s interrupted by loud footsteps, and he turns his head to follow Joseph’s yellow-tinted gaze. There are a dozen very familiar men and women striding forward, all heavily armed, Bliss fumes rolling from their bodies, their eyes Bliss-white with pinprick pupils. Jerome Jeffries forces Hudson to her knees, Burke drops his rifle as Doctor Lindsay aims a shotgun at his chest. Even Pratt, bloodthirsty monster that he is, doesn’t seem sure what to do: the man leaning over him, gun in hand, looks barely eighteen, puppy fat softening his face, his long braids making him look even younger. Nick Rye is among their number, too.

Joseph must have realised that Rook would not listen to reason, and therefore decided to take precautions. The oh-so-troublesome members of the Resistance are now the Father’s human shields, thanks to the Bliss.

“…and I am prepared to do the same to yours.”

Nobody steps forward to force John to his knees. The Blissed-out Resistance don’t even look at him, merely staring blankly ahead. 

Joseph steps forward, between Rook and the others. John automatically takes a step back, lowering his gaze in the face of the glory of Joseph.

“But God is watching us,” Joseph says. “And He will judge us on what we choose in this moment. I told you that we were living in a world on the brink. Where every slight, every injustice, where every choice reveals our sins.”

He did. Oh, he did. Rook has had every opportunity to renounce his sin, to turn away from this path of cruelty and violence. 

“And where have those sins lead us?” Joseph continues. “Where have those sins lead you?”

John closes his eyes, and thinks of Jacob. He touches the pocket that contains the photographs of his brothers. Soon, this will be over. 

“Your friends have been taken and tortured,” Joseph says. That’s not right, but— well, He is speaking to a sinner, and perhaps a sinner would consider Confession and Atonement, the Bliss and Jacob’s trials to be torture. “And it’s your fault.”

John nods. Yes, it is. If Rook had turned away from his pride in the church, where this all began, then maybe everything would have been okay.

“Countless people have been killed, and it is your fault.”

Jacob would be alive. Hope County would not be soaked in blood. 

“The world is on fire, and it’s your fault.”

“Amen,” John whispers, and he opens his eyes. Deputy Rook looks stricken as Joseph speaks. Like he’s just now realising the magnitude of his sins. 

“Was it worth it?” Joseph asks, softly. “Was it?” 

Joseph takes a step forward. Rook takes a step back, brown eyes fixed on Joseph’s face. 

“When are you gonna realise that not every problem can be solved with a bullet?”

Joseph places a gentle hand on Rook’s shoulder, slowly turns him back to the church steps. 

“When you first came here, I gave you the choice to walk away,” Joseph says, and he strides back to the doors, arms thrown up, a silent prayer to God. He turns, facing Rook once more. “You chose not to. In the face of God, I am making you one last offer. You may either join me. Allow me to baptise in these holy waters and begin your life anew. Walk with us through Eden’s Gate. Or you may walk away. Put down your guns. Take your friends. Leave me my flock, and you go in peace.”

John clasps his hands together, a silent prayer: please. Do it. Take Joseph’s gracious offer of baptism. 

Rook looks back at his allies. 

“Join him? Go in peace?” Hudson laughs, even with the barrel of a gun pressed between her shoulderblades. “You’re fucking _insane_!”

“Is he?” Pratt replies. “We should never have been here in the first place.”

“He is,” Burke says. He shakes his head, wary. “Jesus. I should’ve insisted on the National Guard.”

“You know what to do, Rook,” Whitehorse says, surprisingly calm despite the chaos around him. John may despise that two-faced asshole, but he has nerves of goddamn titanium. 

Rook opens his mouth, closes it. He turns back to Joseph, who steps so close that John could almost reach out and touch him. 

“Remember, God is watching.”

There’s a pause. 

“I’m sorry,” Rook says. “Joseph Seed, you are under arrest on suspicion of kidnapping with the intent to harm. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to legal representation. We’ll discuss the rest in Missoula.”

Joseph shakes his head, closing his eyes in disappointment. Joseph looks up at Rook, his mouth twisted with anger. John’s stomach drops.

“Every slight,” he says, through gritted teeth. “Every injustice. Every choice reveals our _sin_.”

Joseph glances at John— just for a split-second, but he does. Then his attention is back on the Deputy.

“John was wrong,” Joseph snarls, and John bites his lip. Whatever happens next is going to be awful. Perhaps if he begs enough, throws himself at Joseph’s feet, graciously accepts whatever punishment is deemed necessary, promises whatever Joseph wants to hear, he might still be forgiven. “Your sin is not wrath. You would rather watch the world suffer and burn than swallow your _pride_.”

This is bad. Joseph does not usually become angry— this is the most animated John has seen him in _years_. He is slow to anger, slower to act on that anger, and even slower than that to show it in his face or raise his voice. Even when he’d gouged out the eyes of that traitor, so many months back, he hadn’t even seemed angry. To openly display his ire— that’s a really bad sign. He can’t be reasoned with, not when he’s like this. 

“And the Lamb broke the sixth seal and lo, there was a great earthquake!” Joseph shouts, raising his hands in another silent prayer, as he so often does when he preaches. There’s spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth, and he turns, grabbing a Bliss barrel and overturning it. “The sun became black and the moon turned to blood!” 

He overturns a second barrel, and John chokes on the fumes for a split second before staggering forward, dragging Rook away from the rapidly-spreading puddle. He’s come too far to allow Rook to become one of those mindless Angels. Rook quickly starts struggling— he slaps away John’s hands, scrambling to his feet, desperately trying to cough out the Bliss. It’s futile, his eyes are white already.

John glances back up to the church steps— Joseph has vanished. But there’s no earthquake. No black sun and no bloody moon. Everything is as it was before Joseph’s proclamation, save—

John’s stomach drops. 

Save the fact that the Resistance have vanished, just like Joseph. The other law enforcement officers have risen, each one striding forward with Blissed eyes and readied weapons. 

“Your friends see the truth!” Joseph proclaims, from some unseen corner. “They welcome Eden’s Gate into their hearts! They will _die_ for me!”

Oh, shit. Joseph is going to get everybody here _killed_. 

“Help me,” Rook mutters, and he quickly unlocks one of the cuffs, freeing John’s hands. Which doesn’t solve the problem of them both being unarmed, but it’s better than nothing. 

John quickly shoves Rook aside, diving for a shovel that’s been left leaning against a fence. He can hear Rook swearing behind him, but it doesn’t matter. Dealing with the Bliss is easy— when it’s used like this, a high dose to force someone into a docile, Angel-like state, ready to follow any instruction, it can be easily disrupted. The Bliss primarily affects memory and emotion, hallucinations typically being a product of long-term exposure. A high dose like this can be disrupted through any means that disrupts one’s short-term memory, and they can be directed to follow Rook and John rather than Joseph. This mess can be contained.

In short: a sharp knock to the head ought to literally knock some sense into Rook’s allies.

“You need to hit their heads!” John yells, and he turns to face Rook again, weapon in hand. He pauses— Rook’s crouched behind a crate, scrabbling for a forgotten, muddy baseball bat nearby. The other four are converging on his spot, slowly but surely.

They’re ignoring John. Just like Joseph is. 

John isn’t surprised— obviously Joseph would have made Rachel bestow upon him the same method of Bliss control as she used during her tenure as Faith. She would be too powerful, otherwise. Too important. Not disposable enough. 

It’s an advantage he can’t turn down. 

John sprints up behind Pratt and whacks him with all his strength. He goes down, dropping his shotgun, and John hesitates for a moment. The other three haven’t reacted to John at all, still shambling forward. Rook can’t see him right now— he could kill Pratt if he really wanted. 

Ooh. He wants to. He wants to, so badly. But Pratt deserves something worse than this— some humiliating, drawn-out death. Pratt deserves something so awful that he’ll beg to be put out of his misery. 

Instead, John kneels in the mud— he’ll force Pratt to wash or replace this suit later— and helps him up. 

“Help Rook,” he says. “You have to hit the others on the head.”

That Pratt does not argue, merely striding forward to hit Burke with the butt of his gun, is a credit to Rachel’s hard work and intelligence. John grins to himself, and takes care of Hudson, and by the time that’s done, Rook himself has taken Whitehorse out of Joseph’s control. 

Rook raises his gun, shoots at something John can’t see. A moment later, Burke does the same thing, firing at a different spot near the Gluttony dormitory. Hallucinations? 

Joseph must be truly desperate, to resort to _this_. It’s insane— Joseph is more likely to get himself and John killed with this stunt than actually succeed in getting Rook and his allies out of the picture.

“I gave you a chance, and you threw it all away!” Joseph’s words seem to come from everywhere, and nowhere. Did he rig the sound system? Maybe he’s in the church. 

Hudson blinks, and although she’s still a little slow, a little sluggish, she’s regained just enough of herself to frown at his words.

“I don’t think it’s over yet,” she mutters, and her words are slurred. 

Rook’s other allies— the ones who’d vanished when Joseph did— return, trickling back into the courtyard. It’s easy to neutralise them: with this much Bliss in their bodies, they’re little more than zombies. Sharky has a shotgun in his hands, but seems to have forgotten how to use it. Grace Armstrong makes a half-hearted attempt at shooting something imaginary— or maybe the Bliss has thrown her aim so badly that she misses Rook by nearly five metres. John takes great pleasure in knocking Nick Rye down. Nobody else is looking, so he kicks Nick in the ribs before leaning down and dragging him back up, instructing him to help Rook. He doesn’t even seem to notice, as dosed on Bliss as he is, but as soon as that wears off he’ll be suffering. 

“You don’t know what you’re doing!” a hoarse cry comes over the speakers again. “Only I can save you!”

Although there’s easily thirteen of them— Rook’s human battlefield allies, plus Doctor Lindsay, Pastor Jeffries and Mary May, and… some housewife and that kid with the braids— it takes minutes to take them down. It helps that they’re moving slowly, and they’re ignoring John. The law enforcement officers are a little more alert, a little faster, presumably because they’ve been exposed to slightly less Bliss. Rook and Burke are the closest to functioning normally, presumably because they’ve become resistant to the Bliss— but they’re still in bad shape. Slow and unsteady, stumbling on shaking legs.

“You have to _believe_ me!” Joseph’s voice resounds again, cracking in desperation, but this time it’s not coming from the speakers. There’s a definite source: the church. John looks up. Yes, Joseph has reappeared, striding from the doors. John was right, then. He _had_ been hiding in there. 

John can see the moment Burke spots Joseph, because he brings his rifle up, ready to fire. 

“No!” John reaches forward, forces Burke’s arm down. “You don’t get to kill him!”

“He’s going to kill us,” Burke rasps, after a moment of processing. “He’s armed.”

John looks back over, squinting in the bright light. Sure enough, Burke is right. Joseph is holding an assault rifle, and it looks like he intends to use it.

Jesus. He’s going to get himself _killed_.

John sprints forward, ready to protect Joseph with his own body if he has to— but Rook gets there first, slamming into Joseph, knocking them both to the floor. It takes a long minute— long enough for John to reach them— for Rook to cuff Joseph’s hands behind his back. Joseph struggles all the while, and Rook’s movements are clumsy at best.

“Forgive them, Father! They know not what they do…” Joseph pleads with his unseen deity.

John’s never seen Joseph like this, so animated, so manic, so— so _crazy_. Spittle gathers at the edges of his mouth, his eyes wide, his voice cracking near-constantly as he struggles against the handcuffs. Here, writhing on the ground like this, his sunglasses crackes and broken a couple metres away, he looks so small. So insignificant. Not divine— just a man. 

A very sick man.

John crouches, glancing up at Rook before addressing Joseph. 

“Joseph, I’m sorry,” John says, and he is. He’s _so_ sorry. He’s never been sorrier in his life— not when he confessed for his abusive parents, believing his own lies, and not when he’s cried in Jacob’s arms because his brothers had found out how he got himself addicted to drugs and sex, how he was a mess, a sorry excuse for a human being. John takes a deep breath to steady himself, and starts speaking over Joseph’s rambling. 

“As your legal representative, I advise you to stay silent until you are undergoing psychiatric evaluation. I can and will get you out of this mess, but you must invoke your Fifth Amendment right to remain silent,” John says, praying silently that Joseph will listen, that for once he’ll do the easy thing and just _obey_.

That doesn’t happen. Joseph doesn’t seem to register his words at _all_ , still praying under his breath. Rook and the others look terrible, the Bliss soaked into the soil still giving off heady fumes. Rook coughs into his sleeve, just barely able to stand without swaying. Joseph manages to get up onto his knees, in a kneeling position. 

“When the Lamb opened the seventh seal…” Joseph says, and there are tears dripping from his eyes as he speaks, his eyes rising to the sky. “There was silence in Heaven. And the seven Angels before God were given seven trumpets. And there were noises, thunderings, lightnings, and an earthquake…”

It’s a beautiful day. The sky is blue and the sun is shining, and although it’s cold, it’s beautiful.

Joseph’s proclamations are wrong.

John could almost cry. He wants to. All of the hard work of the past two years— and for what? All John had wanted was a family that loved him, and now Jacob is dead, Rachel abandoned them all, and Joseph has some kind of psychosis and refuses to forgive John for his mistakes. That’s not fair. _None_ of this is fair.

“Joseph Seed,” Whitehorse says, leaning down to gently lift Joseph off the ground and onto his feet. “You’re under arrest.”

“And I heard a great voice from the temple say to the Angels: go your ways,” Joseph says, as though he hadn’t heard Whitehorse at all. Joseph seems to be speaking to Rook, who’s sitting back on his heels, looking even more exhausted than usual. “And pour from the vials, the wrath of God upon the Earth.”

John opens his mouth, to tell Joseph to stop— and that’s when everything goes to hell.

There’s an awful noise. A deafening chorus of fog-horns that John has heard only twice before, when the early-warning system was being installed, some eight or so years ago.

John’s stomach drops. 

The Collapse.

Joseph was _right_.

They’ve got about an hour, maybe a little longer, before the bombs hit. Maybe they’ll be lucky, and the bombs won’t hit Montana at all. Knowing John’s luck so far, that’s not going to be the case. 

“We have to move!” John yells, barely audible over the noise. “We have to move _right now_!”

Nobody does: they’re staring, with wide-eyed horror at whatever lies in their line-of-sight. For most of the people here, that’s the lakeside near the church. But there are a couple people looking at the sky, and a few looking north. All of them doubtlessly seeing something horrible, thanks to the Bliss. Joseph seems completely unconcerned: he’s whispering something to himself, looking almost entirely composed again. That’s not surprising, this moment is what his entire life has been leading up to. 

Joseph says something, but it’s not audible over the alarm. Deputy Rook’s hand falls from Joseph’s shoulder, and he honestly looks terrified, eyes wide in fear, fixed on something just beyond the lakeside. He takes a step back, glancing around at his gathered allies, and it’s obvious that he has no idea what to do. 

Well, fortunately, John does. He leaps forward, shaking Rook’s shoulder roughly. 

“We need to get to my Gate!” John yells, loud as he can. “This is it, this is the Collapse!”

“What?!” Rook’s eyes go wide, and John can see the cogs turning in his Bliss-filled head. Joseph lowers his head, and starts mouthing something that John recognises in an instant. He’s singing Amazing Grace, under all this noise.

“Oh my God!” someone cries. “Oh my God, Oh my God!”

“You still have my key, right?” John yells, desperate to be heard above the cacophony of the alarms and the general panic. “If we can get to my Gate, we’ll be fine!”

Rook blinks, slowly, and John could _scream_. Still, Rook’s hand clumsily dives beneath his collar, and he produces John’s key nonetheless.

Whitehorse takes Joseph by the shoulder, starts steering him toward the vans. Some people are starting to run— well, shamble— away from the lakeside, a couple others cowering away from whatever they saw in the sky.

“Move! We have to move!” Whitehorse shouts. “Move!”

“Get everybody in the vans!” John orders. “Get them all in the vans!”

Rook nods, sluggishly, and starts doing just that. John looks around wildly— there! Burke is standing a little further off, just far enough from the fumes that he’s been able to take a little initiative, staggering forward to drag May May and the housewife away from whatever he’s just seen at the lakeside. 

“We gotta get away!” Burke yells. 

“Get to the vans!” John adds, helpfully. Burke, to his credit, doesn’t argue. He merely nods and points, directing the women just as John ordered. 

John claps a hand onto Burke’s shoulder, yells in his ear. 

“When we have everybody in the vans, I need you to drive! You need to follow me, we’re going to my bunker! We’ll be safe there!”

Burke looks like he wants to argue for a second. But then his eyes flicker over the lakeside again, and he nods, even though he’s clearly unhappy about doing so. Whatever he’s seeing has got to be truly terrifying if John’s Gate seems like a viable alternative. Or maybe the Bliss just makes him a more agreeable person. 

It doesn’t take long to herd everybody into the vans. There’s fewer than twenty people altogether, most of whom are too high on Bliss to do anything more than clumsily follow orders. Joseph gets sandwiched between Hudson and Pratt, on one of the benches in the van John will be driving. Pratt’s got his head in his hands, trying to recite Hail Mary, while Drubman Jr. keeps muttering that “we gotta _go_ ”. Most of those present are too lost in the Bliss and whatever horrors they saw outside to be concerned over Joseph’s presence. John thanks God for the Bliss yet again, making this job so much easier. 

John closes the back door, making sure it’s secure— he’s not stopping to pick up any bodies that have fallen out the back— and steps toward the front of the van. He pauses. 

Rook’s trying to climb into the driver’s seat. How predictable.

“No,” John shouts, trying to make himself heard over the alarms. “Whatever you’re seeing isn’t real! I’m not affected by the Bliss— I’m driving! Get in the other seat!”

Rook blinks, very slowly, then clumsily shifts into the passenger seat. John gets in, closes the door behind him, starts the engine. And then they’re off. 

There’s a burst of static from Rook’s radio. He frowns, lifts the handheld from his belt. John can half-hear a voice through the speaker— an older man, panicked. He just about catches the last couple words: “the bunker, now!”

“Too many of us,” Rook replies. “There’s too many, Dutch. We’re going to…” Rook seems to lose his train of thought for a second, distracted by some hallucination on the road. “John, look out!”

“There’s nothing there,” John says. 

“You’re going to kill us!” Rook protests, frantically scrabbling for his seatbelt.

“The birds!” Pratt cries, from the back. 

“Jesus! The birds are on fire! Fuck!” Rook covers his eyes, dropping his radio. 

“The birds are fine!” John snaps, and it’s true— the birds he can see are all tweeting in their trees and flying around in the sky, unaware of their impending radioactive doom.

More static from the radio. John takes the turning into Holland Valley, and glances into the rearview mirror— Burke’s van is right behind. Burke, for once, is doing exactly as he was asked. He’s close— only two or three metres behind John. Burke may be a bone-headed douchebag, but he’s a useful bone-headed douchebag.

Someone in the back is crying. Hudson’s chanting “we’re gonna die” over and over, and Joseph is still singing. John speeds along the highway, trying to make up for the time they’ll lose when they start heading up the mountainside in this rickety old thing. Rook braces himself against the dashboard, eyes squeezed shut, clearly terrified. 

“We’re gonna burn in hell for our sins!” Pratt can be heard lamenting.

This isn’t how John envisioned the Collapse. Not at all. He envisioned being awoken in the middle of the night by a lieutenant, quickly dressing before climbing into a car driven by one of his men, taking his pre-packed luggage with him. Anxiously awaiting Joseph’s arrival, chaperoned by the very best of Jacob’s Chosen. Long hours spent hailing Jacob and Faith, broadcasting the final call-to-arms for their followers. Longer hours spent praying in the chapel with Joseph and their flock, heads bowed as the bombs overhead shake the ground around their shelter.

Still, John reminds himself as he turns off the paved road, at least he’s alive. Joseph is alive. Some of their followers are alive. They’ve lost so many— Jacob first and foremost— but at least some of their family have made it. 

It’s a struggle to get the vans up to the silo— the mountainside has a steep incline and lots of sharp turns, and the engine struggles to produce enough power. Still, finally, they make it. John brings the van to an awkward, jerky halt in the parking lot, and in the mirror, Burke does the same.

John reaches over, takes the key from around Rooks’ neck. Rook opens his eyes, wipes a couple tears away. Whatever he sees outside is distracting enough that he doesn’t seem to notice that he doesn’t have the key any more.

“Get them in the bunker,” John orders, before he climbs out. 

There aren’t any guards out here. They’re all inside, waiting for the Father’s arrival. There’ll be a few stationed in the entrance hall, ready to deter any sinners who’ve managed to get past the deadlocks, ready to undo said deadlocks and greet Joseph the moment he hails them.

John turns the key, disabling the lockdown, and then dashes over to the door, turning the heavy wheel lock. Someone— Burke?— helps him drag the door open, and by then most of the sinners are out of the vans, shambling toward the entrance as quickly as their drugged bodies will allow, fuelled by the fear of whatever apocalypse the Bliss is showing them. Although they all look scared and suspicious, the Bliss has clearly screwed with their ability to think critically: nobody, save Burke, possibly Rook, and obviously Joseph himself, seems to have realised just what this shelter is. 

Good. John’s going to keep it that way as long as possible.

It’s surprisingly easy to get everybody in. The Bliss does almost all the work for him. The sinners need little more than an open door and a couple shouts of “Hurry!” and “Move!”, and in just a few minutes, John’s pulling the door closed behind him, re-initiating the lockdown. Just to be safe, he lowers the blast shutters outside, too. 

When John turns around, most of the sinners are staggering down into the depths of the bunker, still propelled by whatever hellish visions they’d seen outside. Someone unseen is crying, the echoes rebounding up the stairwell. 

John puts his bunker key into the inner pocket of his coat, and heads down. He side-steps the sinners, worming his way through the small crowd to find his brother, his prophet. He barges past Boshaw, who has his hood drawn up, a clear attempt at hiding his face from whatever danger he saw outside. Jess Black is clutching Grace Armstrong’s elbow as though her life depends on it, hand at the knife strapped to her thigh. Pastor Jerome supports Nick Rye, who’s clearly starting to feel that kick now. 

John can see Joseph now, stepping down into the entrance hall. There’s a small squad of Chosen there, guns at the ready. There are a few civilians clustered near the stairwell leading down into the main junction, clearly desperate to see their Father and his Herald again. 

Rook isn’t far behind Joseph— the look of concentration on his face might mean that he needs to keep an eye on his prisoner, as though that’s relevant at all now. Hudson has stopped at the final landing. She’s breathing heavily, her gaze flitting from the words of encouragement and motivational posters on the walls to the Eden’s Gate cross emblazoned across half the crates, to the Peggies gathered in the hall. 

“No…” she mutters, and John can see her start to _break_. “No, no, no…” 

The others meet the sight with mild confusion, staggering down the last couple steps, leaning against furniture and shelves. Mary May puts a gentle hand on Hudson’s shoulder, too Blissed to comprehend why Hudson begins to weep.

“Joseph!” John starts, darting forward. He grasps Joseph, by the elbow, but he doesn’t stop. No, instead Joseph ignores him and steps forward, addressing his flock.

“It is as the Lord has shown me,” Joseph says. There are no proclamations, no speeches, no sermons. The time for that is long past. “The end has come.”

Joseph turns back to look at Rook, who’s only a couple paces behind John. Joseph raises his handcuffed wrists in a gesture of welcoming, of peace. 

“Do you know what this means?” he asks. He waits for a moment before answering his own question. “It means that the politicians are being silenced. It means that the corporations are being erased. It means that the world is being cleansed by God’s righteous fire.”

Joseph smiles. 

“Most of all, it means I was right,” he says. Then he looks over all the sinners, addresses them as a whole. “The world as we know it is over. The prophecy has been fulfilled. Everything we’ve worked and prepared for has come to fruition.”

Joseph’s lip curls. 

“You tried to take this from us,” he says. “You tried to destroy us. You killed my family. I ought to kill each and every one of you for what you’ve done.”

John’s stomach sinks. 

He can’t. Joseph can’t kill them— make this all for naught. 

Except that he can, and there’s nothing John could do to stop Joseph, not when he’s so angry. 

“I will not,” Joseph proclaims. “When this world is ready to be borne anew, we will step into the light. Together, we will march through Eden’s Gate. For I am your Father, and you are my children.”

Joseph lowers his hands, and inclines his head toward Deputy Rook, who simply stares at Joseph in wide-eyed horror. 

“I believe we have much to discuss,” Joseph says. “I’ll be in the office, whenever you wish to join me.”

“Joseph,” John tries again, reaching forward.

Again, Joseph ignores him. He leaves quickly, heading down the stairwell that leads to the main junction. John follows, desperately, for a few paces before giving up. He knows Joseph: he will not relent, no matter how much John begs or pleads. The civilian Peggies ignore John, dispersing with naught but a few fraught glances at the sinners. Even the Chosen disperse: with the blast shutters closed and the Father safe, there’s no need for their deployment. 

The sinners cast confused glances at John and their surroundings as reality starts to slowly seep through the dreamlike haze granted by the Bliss, now that they’re safe from whatever nightmares lay outside. If not for that drug-induced fog around their thoughts, John has no doubt that they’d all be attempting to tear both John and Joseph apart. To be honest, John wouldn’t stop them if they tried. He has a far bigger problem than his mortal life now. Joseph’s quiet refusal to acknowledge John can mean only one thing: the gates of Eden are still locked to him.

John closes his eyes, and tries to quell the turmoil in his head. Tries to keep his breathing calm and even, to blink away the extra moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes. He’s known deep down for a while now. This whole mess isn’t as simple as only getting kicked out of Eden’s Gate. Faith’s men pretending that John wasn’t there, Grant and the Chosen pretending the John was some kind of living corpse, Joseph’s eulogy, and his voicemail message at the ranch… it all points to one thing. John has been declared dead by the Father. Not in the physical sense, but the spiritual. 

Grant and the Chosen must have been trying to Cleanse John’s soul, back at the boat launch. That must have been Joseph’s plan— have John declared dead so that he could then be resurrected, pure and whole once more. A fresh start. A second chance. But they hadn’t _told_ John that, and so he’d resisted, and Deputy Rook had spoilt it all by stumbling in on what he had thought was a genuine murder attempt. He’d done what he thought was best, saving John by taking him away from his Cleansing, and John hadn’t been any the wiser, so he hadn’t fought Rook or explained or anything.

This whole mess has been nothing more than a series of misunderstandings, and now Joseph seems to have given up on him entirely, so he won’t walk through Eden’s Gate and— and what is there for John except for that? The past fifteen or so years have been dedicated to Joseph and Eden’s Gate, and his future, so clear and bright, has always consisted of being at Joseph’s side, a steadfast support for his beloved brother and hallowed prophet. Without that, he doesn't have anything. There is no future for him. 

The worst part is that John knows that this is his own damned fault. If he hadn’t been so vain. If he hadn’t been so cruel. If he hadn’t been so proud, or so slothful. If he hadn’t kept sleeping around or smoking marijuana, maybe Joseph would have been more understanding. If he had managed to convert more people, if he hadn’t complained about his duties, if he hadn't used his cell phone so goddamn much, maybe Joseph would still love him and maybe he’d still have a future. 

John wipes a tear from his cheek, buries his face in his hands. There’s silence for a moment, broken only by quiet sobbing— Hudson, probably. Then Nick Rye speaks, voice quiet and uncertain and uneven. He’s still deeply confused from the Bliss. 

“…Where’s Kim?”

The world ends on a Tuesday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for bearing with me. This has been one of the most fun and challenging things I've ever written. Every kudos, every comment, every bookmark has been a wonderful encouragement. I've enjoyed writing this so much, and I'm so glad to have shared this with such a fantastic community. Thank you for all your love and support! 
> 
> This may be the final chapter of 'excommunication is the new black', but it's not the end of the whole narrative. (there's a sequel or two in the works, and a couple side stories. expect them soon!)


End file.
